


Atrophy

by TimmyJaybird



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Also fluff, Drugging, M/M, Rehabilitation, and warnings I'm sure, plenty of smut to come
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 68,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3740824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne is out of options- leaving the Joker in Arkham simply ensures that the man will escape, and hit his city harder with each new visit. Out of desperation, he does the only thing he can think of- chooses to face the clown not as Batman, but simply Bruce, in an attempt to rehabilitate him into society. But the project turns even more dangerous when Bruce finds his obsession with the clown transcends his role as Batman- and when the clown returns to the interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do love a good attempted rehabilitation fic, and decided I should give one a shot. Here's to hoping I can update regularly!

Bruce glanced down at his watch, noting that about two minutes had passed since his last time check. He exhaled, loud enough that Alfred, standing next to him glanced at him, adjusted his own jacket. The late spring heat was far more intense then anticipated, and Alfred’s insistence on wearing his jacket was only a testament to his resolve.

“Nerves, Master Bruce?”

“Just a little.” Bruce pushed his hands into his pockets, attempting to look casual, confident- laid back. It was something he usually achieved fairly easily, after so many years of practice- but now, he was thinking the image was falling apart. The heat wasn’t helping- he’d wanted to appear in a suit, but had given up entirely and gone for a white button down and jeans. Suits made him feel powerful-

But that was no shock to anyone.

In the distance, he could hear the sounds of engines. Wayne Manor was set out far enough that traffic was light, and often Bruce could hear his visitors well before they arrived. They were right on schedule- which was impressive, considering the cargo they were delivering to him.

The Joker, after all, had a way of completely throwing off plans entirely.

Bruce knew that Alfred was only there to help him save face- that and he would never leave Bruce alone to his own mistakes. The man blatantly, and loudly, disagreed with Bruce’s idea though, an open invitation for the Clown Prince of Crime to come stay at Wayne Manor, under house arrest, with a new style of therapy.

Bruce disagreed with himself over it half the time still.

But he had thrown the clown into Arkham so many times now he had lost count- and the man had broken out just as many times. It was obviously wasn’t working, and he needed a new tactic. While many people would argue that Batman should simply throw the lunatic off a roof and be done with him, Bruce couldn’t bring himself to break his one rule. He would never kill the clown- he was sure of that.

So he had needed a new plan.

Rehabilitation had been deemed entirely impossible for the Joker long ago, and his stays in Arkham consisted of solitary confinement and a plethora of drug cocktails. While this had proven just as pointless, the Asylum seemed out of options. And Bruce had seized upon that. He had enough pull at the Asylum from his funding that, even there had been major disagreement, he could have gotten his way. But the heads were so eager to get the clown off their hands that they had agreed- under strict conditions, of course.

Bruce had drowned in paperwork over it- waivers that he was risking his own health by his own will, that the asylum was not responsible for anything that happened under this new therapy. That the doctors were still given access to the clown and allowed to publish any work on him without needing Bruce’s permission- basically that the Joker was their _property_ , and simply on loan to Bruce. The playboy was fine with that.

He felt safer with the Joker locked up within his _own_ home then at the asylum at this point.

“Here they are now, sir,” Alfred said, as a GCPD car drove up, followed by an van clearly labeled _Arkham Asylum_ , and behind that another two GCPD cars. Once they were parked the officers began to leave their cars, circling around the van carefully.

From the back car, Jim Gordon stepped out. He loosened his tie as he made his way towards Bruce, glasses inching down his nose. “Mr. Wayne,” he said, extending his hand, which Bruce took and firmly shook. He knew Gordon thought this plan was asinine, a suicide for Bruce and half of Gotham. He had fought it until the end- but there had never been a chance that Bruce wouldn’t get what he wanted. But he had heard all about Gordon’s dismay as Batman, had been forced to try and placate him, assure him he would be checking up on Wayne, would look into this himself.

“Before we release the prisoner, we need to have one final walk through.” Gordon had, along with officers and Asylum staff, done a _thorough_ walk through of the manor- or what they thought of as thorough. Bruce had been pleased and horrified that they had found nothing at all to be deemed suspicious- pleased that he was good enough at hiding his identity at Batman that they completely missed it, but also horrified that they couldn’t see it _at all_.

Every day he became less and less shocked that the Joker got away with as much as he did.

“Of course,” Bruce said, waving Alfred away as the man moved to follow. He led Gordon, along with another officer and an Asylum staff member who had been in the van inside, walking through the Manor’s security procedures and systems.

Up to the third floor, Bruce gestured towards the large, heavy door that led to the Joker’s room. “For security purposes, his rooms are adjacent to my own.” Bruce pointed to a door nearly half way down the hall. “Should there be any commotion, I will be very aware of it.”

He entered a code onto a small pad on the wall, and the door unlocked, opened easily. It was heavy, so he was sure the Joker couldn’t find a way to break through it. He didn’t doubt the man’s resources.

“We’ve set up security cameras, two in each room,” Bruce offered, pointing to the corner near the large windows. “Here, the bathroom, and his actually bed room. No move will go unrecorded- and as requested, Arkham staff will have full access, they simply need ask.” They walked through the large open room, set with a plush lounge chair that appeared more like a couch, book shelves, even a television. The rooms were set as a second master bedroom, and Bruce had never had a use for them. It was as if fate had willed the space left for the clown.

“The windows are bullet proof, extra thick- he cannot break them. They only open with a code, unless I disable the security.” Within the bedroom, the officer and Arkham staff member began to poke around- opening the large closet, the dresser, a smaller closet. They were mostly empty, except for a few articles of clothing Bruce had purchased already. He didn’t think leaving the man in that godawful orange suit would do any good to help adjust him to a more normal life.

And the goal was to immerse the Joker as totally as possible.

“I’ve taken every precaution to ensure everyone’s safety,” Bruce said as they left the room, heading back towards the front of the manor. Jim didn’t look convinced, but he said nothing- he was too aware that he held no sway over Bruce Wayne.

Back outside, Gordon gave the go-ahead, and the Arkham staff moved to the back of the van, finally opening it. One climbed inside, and Bruce could hear movement, waited on bated breath for the man to appear.

As he was guided out of the back of the van, he appeared blinding against the sun. While his pants were standard grade orange, his straight jacket was white, and with the sun behind him it seemed two shades too bright, too stark. He rattled with each step, the extra enclosures on his suit sure to add enough extra weight to slow him down, but Bruce didn’t doubt the clown could find a way out, if left to his own devices.

The staff members, flanked by officers, led him up the wide path to the manor. Bruce felt the man’s eyes before he saw them, too green, with pupils so small they were nothing but pin pricks. His face was smeared with old grease paint- flecks gone around his forehead, the slight creases around his eyes that appeared when he grinned. Around his eyes the pitch had faded to worn grey. Bruce wondered when he found the paint in Arkham, but was sure the clown had simply had someone smuggle some in.

It wasn’t as nice as the Joker typically liked to wear, but Bruce knew so long as it gave that face its hideous starkness, that nightmare quality, that the clown wouldn’t be too picky.

As they loomed closer, Bruce could take in more- committed it all to memory. He needed every detail he could get. The man’s curls, days unwashed, the blonde roots, the green that had begun to fade. He wondered when they had last dared to allow the man to shower.

He knew there had been incidents of the fatal kind when the man was allowed so much as a shower.

The lower half of his face was obscured by a mask, molded around his shin, jaw, and up over his nose, to prevent biting. It was tight enough to muffle speech, and Bruce was sure part of its use was to obscure the man’s unnerving laughter. It was so tight that upon closer inspection, Bruce could see the condensation from his breath, obscuring the view of his red lips, his scars.

The man was stopped directly in front of Bruce, who looked him over. The Joker stood still, allowed it, and Bruce could only wonder what was going on inside that head of his. After a moment he turned, was flanked by Alfred, then the staff and his escorted guest, as they made their way inside.

They walked up to the man’s room, and Bruce opened the door, gesturing for everyone to enter. He was handed a clip board by one staff member, a set of final forms for him to sign off on, as the other began to unlock the closings of the man’s straight jacket.

Bruce looked up as the jacket was removed, and the staff member went finally for the mask. The Joker’s pale arms stayed at his sides, his mouth set in a firm line as his mask was pulled away.

And he was standing there, in all his hinged glory, free for a moment.

Bruce stared, aware that everyone was tense, feeling it in the air. They were waiting to see what the man would do. By the door, an officer had her hand on the butt of her gun.

Finally, the Joker turned from them, without a word, an expression, and walked towards the large windows, staring out. He faded then, as if into the background, and Bruce decided it best to leave him be, to get everyone out of the room and off the manor as quickly as possible.

Once the door was relocked, the group made their way back outside. At the door, Alfred had been handed the straight jacket and the mask.

“Should the patient need to be restrained,” one staff member said, “these should suffice. A doctor will be stopping by tomorrow morning to evaluate the situation and the patient.”

“We will be waiting,” Bruce said, shaking every hand that was offered to him. “Thank you for your help, I know this was not a routine move for anyone.”

Bruce waited until his company had all left, then, with Alfred at his side, made his way back into his home. He had his companion leave the Joker’s extra dressings downstairs, out of the clown’s sight, and then the two returned to the Joker’s room. Bruce entered the code, and braced himself as he opened the door for the man to be _there_ , to jump on him.

Instead all he saw was the man’s back. He still stood by the window, hadn’t moved from that spot even an inch. Bruce entered, with Alfred behind him, the door clicking shut and locking behind them.

“I’m hoping the staff at Arkham explained to you what is going on,” Bruce said, shoving his hands in his pockets casually. “But let me welcome you to your new home.”

The Joker glanced back, turning his head only slightly. Bruce held his ground.

“These rooms are yours entirely. I hope to have everything you need very quickly- as it stands, I apologize if they seem rather _bare_. The security is impeccable, however I have tried to keep it discrete. The goal is for you to feel as if this is normal life.” Still nothing, not a smile, not a laugh- not a _single reaction_. “What you do in here is entirely up to you, so long as it fits the protocols that Arkham has helped to outline for you. I felt it only fair you were given a copy, you can find it in the top drawer of that small desk.” Bruce gestured with a nod of his head. “I’m sure it will take some time to adjust to all this. I’m not asking for a miracle- just that you give this a fighting chance.”

There was a moment of silence, before Bruce heard it, the rattle of the Joker’s giggle, starting low in his chest and building up, up, until it seemed to echo around the room. The man wrapped his arms around himself, spinning on his heels so quickly Bruce barely caught the motion. As he hugged himself, his mouth split into a grin, sharp white teeth set against the red smudges on his lips.

“A _fighting chance_? Oh pretty boy, you do have a way with words!” He let another round of giggles rise up, lift out of him like hot steam, before he settled into that cocky smirk Bruce had punched off his face countless times.

*

Bruce had taken dinner up to the Joker after the sun set, with Alfred waiting directly outside the door. The man had settled on the large sill of the window, staring out at the now dark lands behind the manor. It didn’t appear as if he had moved otherwise.

He spoke not a word to Bruce, and Bruce decided not to offer any. He left the tray on the desk, and the room rather quickly. Alfred said nothing, until later that night Bruce went back- found still a silent Joker, and untouched food.

“I assume he has not moved?” Alfred asked as Bruce emerged. He took the tray from the man, before Bruce could argue.

“No. He didn’t touch a single thing.” He swept a hand back through his dark hair. “I know this is a big change. I just hope he’s not planning to starve himself. He pulled that in Arkham, more then once. Damn near a week without food, collapsed, and when the nurses rushed in he blinded one and damn near bled out another.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and Alfred shook his head.

“Surely, Master Bruce, you did not anticipate that this would be easy.” They walked from the door, heading back downstairs, towards the kitchen. Once on the main floor, feeling secure enough away from the man, Alfred ventured, “You know him better then all others, Sir. I frankly cannot believe that you imagine any of this will work on him.”

“I have to try. I’m out of options, Alfred. I throw him in Arkham and he just _climbs back out_. Every time. And it seems every time he escapes, he wreaks even more havoc on Gotham. I’m desperate.”

Bruce hated to admit it, but to Alfred it was almost safe. As safe as it would ever get. “Besides, at least I can keep track of him here. I feel better doing it myself.”

“Next thing, sir, you’ll be relocating all of Arkham to the manor.” Alfred set the tray down. “And frankly, I will need some assistance if you do. I cannot help babysit so many of Gotham’s most depraved. I can only imagine the cost of such a thing.”

Bruce laughed, leaning against the counter and smiling at Alfred. At least the man could offer some humor, even if he completely disagreed with Bruce’s decision.

*

He didn’t move from his spot, as the minutes seeped into hours. The Joker sat, staring out the large window, at the black nothing that had become of the grounds around Wayne Manor. Watching the light seep over them, dye everything gold, orange, red, then finally an inky black- it had been soothing. His cell in Arkham had always been underground, where the maximum security wards were located. He had never had a window. Or a view.

Only when he was running atop Gotham rooftops could he ever enjoy a skyline, a sunset or rise. Or the simple blackness of night. Not the damp, closet blackness of a cell when the power was out, no- that was different, utterly fake and _offensive_ to the senses. A forced blindness.

This was something natural, the kind of blackness that was a soft blanket, that calmed the constant buzzing of a brain, the never ending static under skin and in veins. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The room smelt unlived in, stained with the scent of lemon over what had been the slightest layer of dust. The Joker didn’t doubt that the other man shadowing this self-thought _prince charming_ kept the place spotless- but there was always dust when a room was unlived in. He knew, knew the way it felt like ash. His every home had been unlived in- those deserted buildings in the Narrows, the smallest of hiding closests where he had etched in his existence.

Yes, the Joker knew the dust of unuse, and these rooms were speckled with it.

Still, it was welcomed compared to the dampness of Arkham. Underground, nothing seemed dry. There was a sourness to the air there, one that ingrained within his nose, even when he’d been gone a week. Everything about Arkham was offensive to his hyper active senses- every bit of it seemed woven into his skin, through pores.

He leaned his head back, opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. Eventually, he would sweep through each of these rooms. He would learn curves and corners, textures- everything would be committed to memory, and quickly. The Joker was an expert at learning his small spaces, the ones he chose and those assigned. He had learned ever cell he’d ever been given at Arkham, ever small space he had chosen for himself in the Narrows and underbelly of his city. He had learned Gotham, inside and out, it’s spaces and dust and the people who kicked it up.

This space, it would be no different. These rooms, this Manor, the grounds around it. All something new to learn, to mold, to burn.

He clicked his tongue, smiling to himself. Oh, if his Bat could see him now- he wondered what the _big man_ himself would say. Did he approve of the Joker being whisked away from his tower, to a place where there was no dragon? He must know, the clown mused, he _had_ to- the Bat knew everything, or liked to think he did. Everything except what sprouted roots inside the Joker’s head.

“Do come for a visit, Batsy,” the Joker whispered, pressing his finger tips to the window, as if trying to touch the cool night just beyond it. “I do so want to dance.”

He smiled to himself, allowing a round of soft giggles to slip past red lips and sharp teeth, to fill the room around him with the sort of comfort he had grown used to giving himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect to have an update so quickly :3 I considered delaying posting it by a day or two but eh, just have it now! <3

Bruce barely slept, and almost regretted having spent the night in the Manor, and not out on the streets. Even if the Joker was accounted for, there were plenty of other unsavory folks running under the dark skyline.

But he hadn’t wanted to leave, not on the first night. Should something have happened anything, he wanted to be here. He didn’t want to risk Alfred being stuck alone with the clown.

Now showered, dressed, and sipping at his mug of coffee, he wondered if he should check in on the Joker _before_ the doctor from Arkham arrived, or after. He wasn’t sure if it would be best to let the man get acquainted with his new space or not-

With a frown he realized he was treating the clown like a _new dog_ , and decided to hell with it. He made his way upstairs with his coffee, hesitating only a moment at the door- thinking it would be polite to announced himself, but not really having a way to. If the Joker wasn’t right by the door, odds were he wouldn’t hear Bruce anyway.

Once Bruce had the door unlocked he slipped inside- and found that the Joker seemed to be in the exact spot he had left him. Sitting by that window. He would have believed the man hadn’t slept at all, had simply sat unmoving all night- but the pillows on the plush chair were disturbed, and Bruce hoped the clown had at least slept a little.

It was always terrifying to think of the Joker’s brain never once turning off.

“Good morning,” Bruce offered, and the Joker turned staring at him with those green eyes, framed with the sad remains of make up, grease paint from the bowels of Arkham. Bruce held the gaze, because he had, so many nights, and cowl or not he refused to show the Joker fear.

Second passed, and the clown pushed himself from his spot by the window, a clash of hideous worn orange cotton and his pale skin, but those eyes- they held Bruce, even when the small crinkles showed in the corners as he cracked a smile, sharp teeth and worn-red lips.

“Hello there, pretty boy.” Bruce tightened his hold on his coffee mug, felt a strange tightness in his spine. The Joker looked like he could eat him alive, swallow Bruce down and grind his bones to dust with those teeth. He was terrifying, and it left Bruce’s heart pounding in his chest. A rush, a thrill- like he got chasing the man, with the wind and laughter in his ears.

“I...hope you slept.” Bruce wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say, but felt like there should be a list. Like he needed to explain himself to this man, his point-by-point breakdown of what he wanted. But he was paralyzed.

The Joker didn’t respond, he crossed the room slowly, light on his feet and the room’s soft carpet, until he was close, until he was reaching out, his finger tips brushing Bruce’s knuckles, the porcelain of his cup. “Why? Does it _frighten_ you that I could have been awake while you slept?” He leaned closer, greasy curls falling along his scarred, high set cheeks. “Mmm I hope so. I do like my boys pretty and _scared_.”

Those fingers traced the bones of his knuckles, over his hand, towards his wrist, and Bruce was dizzy. In the pit of his stomach, he was thankful when the door behind him suddenly opened, framing Alfred as he walked in.

“Master Bruce,” he said, as the Joker retracted his hand, falling back into his own space. “The doctor from Arkham has arrived-“

“And would like her time with the patient.” Bruce glanced back, a woman standing in the doorway. She smiled, but it was fake, serious, and Bruce sighed, wanting to look back at the Joker. He resisted, walked to the doorway and took her hand, shaking it.

“Bruce Wayne,” he offered, forcing one of his own dazzling smiles. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Thank you, but no. I’d like to get right to work.” She motioned her hand, and a GCPD officer moved closer behind her. “Please, I know you are a _very_ busy man. Go about your day. I will have an officer with me at all times- as previously agreed upon.”

“Should you stay longer then thirty minutes,” Bruce reminded her, “without communicating with us, Alfred and I will assume the worst. And won’t hesitate to enter.”

“Of course, Mr. Wayne.” He didn’t care for her smile, but said nothing more, leaving her and the officer alone with the Joker as he and Alfred exited.

*

He didn’t know her, and that amused the Joker. New blood, perhaps. Arkham was always getting it. Still, he was rather unhappy at her timing- his keeper was rather enjoyable to look at, and he hadn’t indulged the day prior. He’d liked the feel of his bones under skin. Liked those dark eyes.

But then again, he knew he preferred the dark, mysterious type.

The woman settled down at the desk, turning the chair so she could face him. “Would you care to sit?” she asked, and the Joker smirked.

“I would rather, ah, stretch my legs.” With that, he took to pacing the room, aware of the officer at the door watching him with nervous eyes.

“Was your first night pleasant?” The Joker walked past the windows, trailing fingers along the sill.

“A vast _improvement_ over my normal suite.” He grinned to himself keeping his back to her.

“The room seems rather untouched. Why is that? You have free reign here.” She hesitated but a moment, then, “Perhaps you feel out of place? That you don’t have the right to touch these things?”

Back still to her, the Joker nearly laughed. Oh, this one was going to be fun. _Coming in hot, sugar_ he mused, but bit his lower lip. Don’t laugh, don’t blink don’t breathe. Let _her_ talk. Let her divulge and assume. He could use her assumptions to his own advantage, given time.

This was what he did, watched people, picked them apart. He was _good_ at it.

“I’m sure it’s overwhelming moving from a place such as Arkham to Wayne Manor. I can even admit, it was overwhelming for me, and I’m only here for a short time.” She shifted in her chair, taping a pen on her notepad. “Have you spoken much with Mr. Wayne?”

“No,” the Joker admitted, resuming his walk around the room. “Perhaps we would have had a _lovely_ chat, had we not been interrupted.” He glanced at her, missed her eyes as she was jotting down notes. “But who needs to talk to pretty boy when his, ah, face has always been at the center of Gotham’s _spotlight_.”

The Joker moved to the plush couch, flopping down onto it and folding his hands over his belly- mocking his stereotypical therapy pose.

“So you do know who Bruce Wayne is.”

“Why _of course_ I do, sugar. Everyone in Gotham knows _Bruce Wayne_. Curious that he’s started, ah, collecting Gotham’s _finest_. I wonder, will I have a suite-mate soon?”

The woman moved her pen along her paper again, and the Joker’s eyes followed the motion. “Mr. Wayne has shown no interest in any other Arkham patients other than you. You were the only one he asked about, the only one it seemed on his mind.”

_Hmmm, how charming_. “Well aren’t I luck-y.”

“I would say so.” She settled her pen down, staring at the Joker. “I’m not sure how much they told you at Arkham, but Bruce Wayne is offering you a second chance- a new life. He wants to fully immerse you in a normal life. Frankly, he put up one hell of a fight when it was demanded that you still see a psychiatrist. We haven’t yet finished all the final details on a routine. But he’s willing to give you _everything_ , full run of this house, anything you can dream of. If you truly know who he is, you know he’s capable of it.”

The Joker drummed his fingers on his belly, saying nothing.

*

“Perhaps a visit to the city would do you some good,” Alfred suggested as Bruce poured his second cup of coffee. “I’m sure there are things waiting for you at the office.”

“I made it clear I would be out for a few days- even if no one knows why. There were plenty of questions, that’s for sure. But no, I want to stay here.” Bruce rubbed his hand, feeling the ghost of the Joker’s fingertips.

“Perhaps a walk then, sir. I would not think it wise to simply charge back into that room when our...guest’s therapy is done. You yourself wanted to give him room to breathe.” Bruce sighed, nodding his head, thinking Alfred was right. He’d wait until the doctor was gone and go for a run, clear his head. It felt muddled in there, over-crowded.

The Joker’s bright eyes and his finger tips seemed to take up all the space he had to offer.

*

The Joker didn’t move to see his doctor out. He lay on the couch as the door clicked, shut and locked, behind her, staring up at the ceiling.

_He’s willing to give you everything_. He drummed his fingers again, before sitting up hooking one leg over the couch and bounding up, pacing about the room. This little playboy would give him the world, if he asked, if he showed he _deserved_ it.

It was an opportunity he could have never hoped for.

If he could get Bruce Wayne to believe in him, he would have everything he ever needed. He could have his hand around one of the most powerful men in Gotham city. His night-time fun would be fully funded for life- all he had to do was make Bruce _see_.

All he had to do was play a part. Oh, acting, he could do that. He clicked his tongue, a skip in his step was he made his way to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door behind him. He glanced at himself in the mirror, frowned at his dirty curls, the flakes of greasepaint that clung to his skin. Oh, what a sight, _what a sight_. He certainly didn’t look his best. He _tsked_ , turning and pushing open the sliding door to the shower, reaching in to turn the water on.

He stripped, leaving his orange, Arkham issue clothes on the floor, and stepped in, closing the door and surrendering himself to the hot water. It burned, almost, but he welcomed it- oh, he was used to a burn on his skin. Everything was too hot, too cold- it came with his sensory territory, and he’d grown used to _liking _a slight burn.__

__He shampooed his curls, giggling to himself over the smell of lavender that filled his nose. He wasn’t against it, but had grown so used to scentless, slimy soap at Arkham that it caught him off guard. Why, he’d smell just like a _princess_. All the better._ _

__He was amused that the soap _matched_ , and wondered if it was more expensive then the filthy clothes he had left piled on the floor. He coated himself, every pale curve, every bit of muscle and bone, before working the suds between his hands and up over his face._ _

__He washed away the remaining greasepaint, the black around his eyes, what was left of the cheap drug store lipstick. He had to work over his scars a few times, to get within each indent, careful to keep his nails from snagging skin._ _

__Once the water was off and he was clean, he opened the door and stood there, naked, letting the cool air soak in through his pores. Goosebumps rose on his skin, and he shivered, enjoyed the little rush pushing into him. He needed to look _alive_. Then, carefully, he walked across the bathroom, grabbed a large towel hanging on a rack and began working it over his skin, leaving the bathroom and heading into the bedroom._ _

__He hadn’t explored much the night before- and maybe that had been stupid, but he was beyond caring. Having a view had thrown him so that he hadn’t wanted to be torn away._ _

__“Really out did yourself, pretty boy,” he mused, looking around the spacious room. The bed itself was huge, and while comfortable, rather _lonely_ looking. He was sure it could use a little Bat-sprucing up to bring it to life._ _

__He moved to the dresser, opening drawers until he found underwear, and wondered if Bruce had gone through the trouble to ask Arkham staff about sizing. The Joker wondered if he blushed when he did- or if he managed to keep a stoic-business face._ _

__He found a pair of jeans tucked away and slipped those on, smacking his lips together and furrowing his brow. They were rather tight- not uncomfortable, but it felt strange. This wasn’t at all how he dressed- but then again, if Bruce was going to try and immerse him in _normal life_ , he was sure he wouldn’t find a purple suit hanging in the closet._ _

__He did, however, crack a grin when he found a cotton shirt, short sleeved, with various purple stripes. It would do. He tugged it on, and resisted looking in the mirror- too afraid he would laugh at himself, that he would lose his composure._ _

__Instead he went back to toweling his curls, just as he heard the lock giving on the door to his room, before it was opened. He stayed where he was, waiting, wondering if he’d be called like a dog._ _

__But he wasn’t. Instead he listened to the soft footsteps, before he was given Bruce, emerging into the bedroom, his dark hair tussled. Whatever nice clothes he’d dress in earlier were gone, given way to running gear- and _oh_ , the Joker could smell the outside on him. Sweet and warm with hints of decay, always decay in that pretty little world outside his window._ _

__He could admit, pretty boy looked rather _delicious_ in his state, with that hitn of pink to his cheeks. The Joker smiled, pulling the towel from his curls and enjoying the way Bruce’s face froze, fell- how he openly stared._ _

__Make-up less, the Joker seemed utterly different. Those same high cheek bones, but skin typically pasty-white was now simply pale, marked by pinks laced into his scars. They weren’t so hideous outside the make up- in fact, something about their curl complimented his face. Bruce had seen him before without the garish war paint, but it was never like this- open, casual, with good lighting. Where he felt oddly relaxed._ _

__His curls still held a decent amount of green, but it had faded in the shower, and Bruce saw more blonde showing through. What caught him the most tho was the dusting of freckles along the Joker’s nose, his cheeks shortly below his eyes._ _

__Bruce cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. “I hope I’m not-“_ _

__“Intruding? It is your home, prett-y boy.” The Joker dropped the towel, taking a step closer, giving Bruce another once over. Oh, looking didn’t hurt. Another step, another, and he was slipping into Bruce’s space, glancing up and into his dark eyes. “Besides, I’m used to a lack of, ah, privacy.”_ _

__“Well, not here you won’t be.” Bruce felt as if he had spoken too fast, and glanced away. “I mean- I want you to feel you have your own space, even at the start of all this.” Bruce waved his hand, and the Joker laughed._ _

__“Your little experiment.”_ _

__“Don’t dehumanize yourself.” Even though Bruce knew that was what he himself did to the man, every time he put the cowl on. It had been the easiest way to deal with him, to think of him as a mad dog, not a _man_. Perhaps that had only made the problem worse, in the end._ _

__Bruce knew he was to blame for the Joker, and that hard as he had tried, he had never helped fix the problem. He had only ever made it worse. Part of this was his penance to his city._ _

__The Joker said nothing- but he did reach out, tracing a line down Bruce’s chest, over the grey cotton t-shirt that clung to his slick skin. “Was it a good day for a run?” When he looked up, it was through blonde lashes, and Bruce felt his heart lurching. It was terrifying._ _

__“Y-yes. Actually.” Bruce reached back, swept his hair from his forehead, felt like he needed to jump back a few feet, away from this man’s touch. This was the second time in one day he’d touched him, and the second time it had made Bruce feel nervous and dizzy and _slightly giddy_. “Are you hungry?”_ _

__The Joker raised one brow, then gave a chuckle. “I could eat, sugar.”_ _

__Bruce’s stomach shouldn’t have tightened over that._ _

__“Let me get cleaned up,” he offered, taking a step back, exhaling when the Joker was forced from his space, “And I’ll bring something in.”_ _

__The Joker watched Bruce walk away, waited until he heard the door open, the lock _click_ , and grinned. Why, pretty boy was _rattled_ and it was utterly delightful. He didn’t doubt he could wrap Bruce Wayne around his finger, and why, the man was rather a joy to look at. It might be far more enjoyable than the Joker had first thought._ _


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce asked Alfred if he would get something together for lunch, and jumped in the shower, washing away his morning run as quickly as possible. When he appeared, finishing buttoning up his shirt, Alfred was holding a tray with a wary smile.

“Would you like me to accompany you, sir?” Bruce knew Alfred wanted him to say yes- didn’t like him alone with the Joker. But Bruce shook his head, taking the tray and thanking him instead. He needed to do this alone-

The Joker had to trust him. And he had to trust himself.

Alfred still followed him upstairs, entering the code for Bruce and opening the door so the man could nudge it with his hip. He found the Joker sitting by the window again, watching him as he entered. Bruce walked to the desk, setting the tray down, and smiling- hoping his nerves didn’t show.

“Alfred made tea,” Bruce said, glancing at the cups, “But if you want coffee, I can get some.”

“Too much caffeine,” the Joker mused, slipping off the sill and walking over, a sway to his hips that shouldn’t have existed, that caught Bruce’s eye even though he’d seen is countless times. “It wreaks absolute _havoc_ on my system, dollface.”

Bruce kept his mouth shut. He’d read the Joker’s files cover to cover, so many times that he could quote various portions- and the man’s sensitivity wasn’t something he had ever missed. But sometimes the extent of it shocked him.

“The tea is decafe,” Bruce assured him, “Alfred seems to think I get enough caffeine as it is.” The Joker laughed, sitting on the arm of the plush couch, watching as Bruce picked up his own cup, taking a sip.

He wondered, truly, what Bruce expected to get out of this. Was he looking for some sort of glory in fixing Gotham’s _biggest problem_? Taking care of an issue even the big bad Bat couldn’t fully handle. Was he looking for a thrill?

The Joker wanted to know, so he knew what to feed him.

“I hope the doctor this morning didn’t interrupt you,” Bruce said, settling down in the chair by the desk. “I’m hoping you won’t have too frequent visits with them. It must be jarring, to suddenly have one appear. I...I don’t want you to think of Arkham when you’re here.”

The Joker felt the corners of his mouth tugging, and tried his damnedest to keep from smiling. “It wasn’t _pleasant_ , but someone probing in your, ah, head never is. You simply get used to it.”

“Well, I’ll keep their visits to a minimum.” Bruce sipped at the tea, and the Joker stretched out his legs, pushing himself off the couch arm and situating himself right in front of Bruce. He leaned down, smiling- almost sweetly, something Bruce wasn’t used to- but maybe it was his lack of makeup, the gentle tug of his scars, the freckles dusting his nose and cheeks. Maybe it was the fact that, without his flamboyant purple suit, he could pass as normal to unknowing eyes.

Bruce felt unknowing, in that moment.

“You’re too much, pretty boy,” the Joker teased, reaching out to run his fingers along Bruce’s arm. He rubbed gently, almost friendly, and Bruce felt his skin prickling along his spine.

*

The Joker hummed to himself, a wordless tune that cast a smile on his scarred cheeks. Alone in his room, in the dark of night, it was nice to be able to see without the aid of flickering, headache inducing lights. The day had been far more productive then he could have imagined- his doctor’s visit had planted that perfect seed in his head, and Bruce’s seemingly schoolboy nerves around him only proved he would have the man around his finger soon.

And then he’d be out, back on the Gotham streets where he belonged. Beckoning out to his _love_. He was sure the Bat was missing him terribly.

He wondered if Batman knew where he was. So far, there had been strict procedures put into place to keep this from the media. The Joker assumed it was so Bruce could make this little fantasy seem all the more real to him- but oh, perhaps he was afraid of coming face-to-face with Gotham City’s big bad Bat. The Joker giggled, covering his mouth to stifle it- even though he was sure Bruce couldn’t hear him, through the thick wall.

Interesting that their bedrooms should be separated by simply that- _one single wall_. The Joker climbed onto the bed, leaning against the headboard, pressing his hands to the wall and his ear, listening intently. Moments passed, and he was given nothing, which made him frown. Of course, no one said Bruce had gone to bed after he had left him- perhaps he wasn’t even there.

_Maybe he’s got a hot date_ the Joker mused, flopping down onto the large bed and stretching out. _All of Gotham’s charming little birdies must just eat him up_. He giggled, closing his eyes for a moment and exhaling. He couldn’t blame them, the man was charming- he simply wanted to take a bite out of him.

_I do hope Batsy baby won’t be too jealous_.

*

Bruce watched the traffic below from his perch, atop one of Gotham’s many old brick buildings. It was a clothing store, now. Closed, which made his job a bit easier.

He hadn’t wanted to go- but he knew he couldn’t stay away from patrol for too long. Even if the Joker was secure, there were plenty of other problems waiting for him. So far, it had been rather petty- muggings that had only required him to step from the shadows. It was nice, to be nearly bored for once.

He stood, stretching his back muscles and allowing his cape to pick up the warm breeze. Without thinking, he reached out, rubbed his arm where the Joker had earlier. Thought of the man grabbing him instead with those nimble fingers, squeezing like he wanted to break bone-

Because he did. Bruce tried to remind himself of this- he believed there might be a chance, perhaps because without this little bit of hope he was forever stuck with the knowledge that the Joker would always plague him and his city. But the man had only been away from Arkham for a solid day- and had not yet left his room. Bruce couldn’t let himself fall for anything, yet.

But he couldn’t keep him crated forever, and he wanted more then anything to simply open the doors and let him go. See what he did. Under these circumstances, with this environment- with _Bruce_ , and not Batman.

He was desperate, and desperate times did call for desperate measures.

He turned, away from the traffic, deciding it was time to move. Give the city a good sweep before he returned home to catch a few more hours of sleep.

*

Blinding light woke Bruce, as his curtains were tugged back. Alfred had his back to him, smoothing them out and then turning, offering a smile. “Master Bruce, good morning.”

“What time is it?” Bruce asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Nine AM, sir.”

“Bloody hell.” Bruce rolled over, away from the light, burying his face into his pillow.

“You did have an early night, sir. What time were you in? About four?” Bruce groaned, and Alfred smoothed down the lapels on his jacket. “I was going to see if our guest was hungry, but I thought I should wake you first-“

Alfred had barely finished the words before Bruce was throwing his blanket off, stumbling out of bed. “I’ll do it,” he said, grabbing at his robe- which he had carelessly thrown over a chair, and tossing it on over his pajamas. “Would you mind making some coffee?”

“Of course.” Alfred watched Bruce hurry from the room, his smile falling away. Such eagerness was a troubling thing.

*

Bruce let himself into the Joker’s rooms, walking quietly. He wasn’t by the window, and Bruce soon found he was still in bed. Partially on his belly, the sheets were tangled in his otherwise bare legs, his t-shirt ridding up his pale belly and back.

That and his underwear were all he was wearing. And Bruce did not fail to notice. Not that he hadn’t seen the Joker in various states of undress before- he could never forget one visit to Arkham, after the clown had broken the neck of another patient in the showers and had planned to gut him with bare fingernails if he couldn’t find anything else more suitable. The guards had gotten to him before he’s clawed into the dead man too much, and Bruce had found him soaking wet and shivering with laughter, in nothing but a dingy towel in his cell.

But Arkham was different then this. The flickering lights, the smell of mold, it all diluted this man, muted him. In morning light, sleeping and utterly away from the world his body inhabited, the Joker looked far different. Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat, his hands itching to reach out, to touch. He wanted to know how warm the sheets under this man felt.

The Joker shifted, and Bruce realized he had been staring, _staring_ , and embarrassed with himself, almost sickened, he very carefully turned and walked back towards the door, deciding he needed to start over fresh. He entered the code, opened the door, and closed it again, more forcefully. He heard the bed shifting as he walked back towards the bedroom, found the Joker propped up against the pillows, rubbing one eye as he stretched his other arm up above him.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Bruce lied, offering a smile. “I wanted to see if you were hungry.”

“Did you now?” The Joker tossed his legs over the bed, stood, walked towards Bruce with that too-easy-predatory sway of his hips, jilt in his step. He was half dressed and he was terrifying and _lovely_ , and Bruce wasn’t sure which part of that was the scariest. “Aren’t you just a _gentleman_.” He purred his words out as he stopped within Bruce’s space, reaching out to run fingers along the lapel of his robe. “Or maybe you just wanted, ah, some _company_.”

“Maybe it’s a bit of both,” Bruce admitted, and the Joker grinned.

“Aren’t you just _prec-ious_. I can’t imagine you’re, ah, starving for company, pretty boy.” He took Bruce’s arm, squeezed it against his body as he turned them, walking away from the bedroom. “I’ve heard the ladies just _love_ you.”

Bruce didn’t say anything, didn’t know _what_ to say, instead allowed himself for one second to enjoy the fact that the Joker was warm, the way his chest pressed against his arm. His cheeks had the slightest flush to them, brought out the freckles and scars and those horrifying eyes, the smile lines that stretched like hidden roads.

“So shall I await your return, _eagerly_ , lambchop?” he asked as they reached the door. And Bruce knew the answer was yes, he should wait, he would go find Alfred, or make breakfast himself. He’d be back quickly-

Instead, he rolled his shoulder, forcing the Joker to look away from the door, up at him, and reached out, entering the security code. The lock on the door clicked, and Bruce watched those too-green eyes widen as he pushed it open.

“I like this more,” Bruce admitted, guiding him out of the room, closing the door behind him. He watched as the Joker’s eyes bounced around the hallway, each and every curve and color as they walked. He did not pull away, though. He clutched Bruce’s arm, stayed by his side, smile growing more and more with each step. “You have to promise to behave, though.”

“Define behave, sweetheart,” he breathed as they started down the stairs. “Because this is rather _exciting_.” He squeezed Bruce’s arm, and the man’s heart throbbed in his chest.

They’d barely gotten their feet on the floor when Alfred appeared, smiling at Bruce- then quickly faltering when he saw the Joker, who grinned at him, leaning away from Bruce but still holding onto his arm. “Good morning Jeeves!” he called, cocking his head to the side so his bed-wild curls bounced free.

“Good...morning.” Alfred simply stared, and Bruce wasn’t sure if he was so shocked he was forgetting his manners...or if they simply didn’t matter around this man. “Is there something I can get you, sir?”

He was looking at Bruce, but the Joker answer, finally releasing his arm. “Pretty boy here invited me down for breakfast. I do believe I’ll have, ah, whatever he’s having.” He clung his arms around spinning around once, enjoying the way the open foyer breathed around him. The air had room to move, to rise and settle where it so chose.

Not that he was cramped within his own rooms, no. But _this_ , it was exciting. Just as it had been thrilling to be loaded into that Arkham van, to get those precious few seconds of sunlight, the smell of the city. The painful flood to his senses.

He liked the pain.

“Right away, then,” Alfred said, turning and walking with a hurried step. Bruce didn’t exactly blame him. He had brought a half dressed Joker out of the confines of his secure room. He was after all, setting them up all for injury- if he was lucky. Death, if he wasn’t.

Though, he knew just how to restrain the clown, if he needed to.

Taking a chance, needing to seem in control, Bruce began following Alfred- ignoring the Joker. The clown watched, head cocked, and though he wanted to simply _run_ around the room, to touch everything, leave behind finger prints and his breath, he found himself following his host, staying only a few paces behind.

The room could wait, he tried to tell himself. Pretty boy here, he was entertaining in that very moment.

There was a room, set with large glass doors and a small table, off the side of the kitchen. Bruce led the Joker there, settling down at the table and reaching for his tablet, which Alfred had so diligently left out for him, next to his mug of coffee. The seat across from him had a second mug, and the Joker assumed it was for him.

He didn’t sit, instead chose to move around the room. Bruce glanced at him, but didn’t stop him, didn’t speak. Instead, he sipped at his coffee, swiping through the top news stories. From one large glass door, the Joker watched Bruce as a translucent reflection, eyeing the way he moved- each little detail, the way he held his mug, his posture. His fingers twitched at his sides, and as _exciting_ as it was to be freed from a locked room, to have the great outdoors right in front of him- a world that led to his city, his rooftops, his big bad nasty Bat surely- he was far more interested in watching Bruce Wayne sip at his coffee.

“Can I get you anything else?” Alfred asked, walking out and settling two plates down.

“Would you get our guest a glass of water? I know he won’t be drinking that coffee.” Bruce glanced over at the Joker, who tried to avert his eyes in the glass- felt as if he had been caught staring. The faintest color rose in his cheeks, and it took him a moment to inhale, to pull everything down to his very core-

Before he turned and grinned with those pink lips, all white, sharp teeth and pulled scars, faint freckles. He sauntered back, just as Alfred disappeared, and grabbed the chair next to Bruce, turning it around and settling on it, folding his arms along the back.

“Do tell me you’re reading something _juicy_ , sugarplum.” He leaned forward, and Bruce couldn’t help but smile, at the corners of his mouth. He glanced over at Alfred as he returned, the man eyeing the Joker’s ignored setting, and sighing, setting the glass of water back where the man _should_ be sitting.

“Master Bruce likes to keep up with the Gotham’s daily news,” Alfred chimed in, “And he must be simply flooded with emails regarding his brief vacation.”

Bruce smiled more, chuckling a little, and the clown sucked on his tongue, reaching out and tracing along the edge of the tablet. “Tell me, pretty boy, how many articles are popping up about you whisking me off to your _castle_?”

“None,” Bruce said sipping at his coffee and glancing into those green eyes. “The media has no idea you’ve even left Arkham. That’s how it’s going to stay, for now.”

“Mmm, so I’m you’re _dirty little secret_ , eh? I think I _li-ke it_.” He giggled, dragging one finger down the side of the tablet, along Bruce’s hand, to his wrist. Bruce was sure the man could feel his hammering pulse, and wanted to pull away- but that would only _give_ himself away sooner. No instead he glanced down at the tablet and kept his eyes there, as that finger traced along his wrist, back up his hand.

The Joker smiled to himself, ready to stand up, thinking maybe he could be a bit more forward and, oh, force his way right into that happy and inviting lap,but Alfred was coming back, holding out a cell phone towards Bruce.

“Master Bruce I apologize, but your phone would not stop ringing. It seems important.” Bruce set his tablet down, taking the phone, along with his coffee, and walking from the room. The Joker pouted, rolling his eyes as he pushed up from his chair.

“We were having a moment, Jeeves,” he exclaimed, flopping down into the chair that had been _meant_ for him, and reaching for a piece of toast. The jam on top was a dark pink, and he was debating from the color alone if it was strawberry or raspberry. Alfred said nothing as the Joker took a bite, perking up at the fact that it was rather _tart_. “I expected it to taste like _candy_.”

“Master Bruce is not one for things that are _overly sweet_ , sir.” The _sir_ seemed forced, but the Joker grinned, liking it.

“Ah well, he simply needs to give me a little _samp-le_ then.”

*

“If there’s ever anything specifically you want, you simply have to ask.” Bruce was watching as the Joker poked around his library, standing on his tip toes to see the top shelves. Most of the books were old, form his father, grandfather- but he had added a few, for variation. Still, he wasn’t sure there would be anything too exciting for the man.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants as the Joker ran his fingers along the spines, up the row to the end of the shelf. He liked to touch things, Bruce noticed. He had tried to touch everything after breakfast, on his way back to his room. He’d touched Bruce again, before entering- fingers running along his arm.

The shower Bruce had taken after was ice cold. He was ashamed at how badly he needed it.

He had left the man alone for a time, to make a few calls- he knew he had to return to the office tomorrow. He had things that needed his attention, and was lucky he had pushed them off as long as he did, but now he was hoping he could have the rest of the afternoon free. After all, there was something right here that needed his attention as well.

The Joker walked to the other side of the shelf, humming to himself, glancing over titles. When Bruce caught up, the man was stretching up, reaching well above his head towards a large book. Bruce walked up behind him, and without much thought, reached out for his waist, the exposed skin from his t-shirt pulling up and where his jeans clung to his hips. His hands pressed to flesh, steadying the man as he teetered.

“Careful,” he whispered, as the Joker glanced back at him, then suddenly was pressing back against him, balance lost in that brief moment. Bruce stumbled a little but stayed upright, arms moving around the lithe man and holding him steady, back against his chest. The Joker stared wide eyed ahead of him, his head falling back onto Bruce’s chest.

Neither moved for a moment, Bruce feeling his heart hammering in his chest, his arms locked around the clown. He wasn’t sure he could move, and when the Joker squirmed just a bit, it made him squeeze him tighter. The Joker sucked on his tongue, trying to figure out how he had managed to even lose his balance- why yes, he could be _unsteady_ , but he was light and sure on his fight- his nightly runs with the big bad Bat had ensured that.

Finally he pulled himself away, Bruce’s arms falling to his sides as the Joker moved back to the shelf, stretching one again. This time Bruce watched, but didn’t touch-

Swore he caught a glimpse of a dash of freckles along the man’s lower back.

The Joker managed to grasp the book this time and pull it down, flipping it to look at the cover. Bruce leaned over, glancing at it, as the Joker grinned.

“I think I want this,” he said, and Bruce frowned. The old medical book was most likely not approved reading material for the man who was supposed to be recovering.

“Maybe not that one,” Bruce said, taking the book gently. The Joker didn’t fight him, only frowned, watched him push it back into its small cavity.

“You are no fun, pretty boy.” The Joker turned, folding his arms, and then just as Bruce turned, leaned back against him, into his arm and shoulder. “If you pawn off some sad sort of romance novels on me, I promise, I will find a way to burn them.”

He was looking away, head turned, showing off the side of his throat past his curls. The pose was over-dramatic, and instead of finding anything unnerving about it, Bruce found himself _smiling_ , almost laughing. He wrapped his arms around the Joker again, lifting him off the ground and suddenly, in a quick spin, tossing him over his shoulder. The Joker cried out, hands scrambling along Bruce’s back.

“There’s no burning books in this house,” he chimed, carrying the Joker away as if he weighed next to nothing. He had lifted him plenty of times before, and knew the division of his weight, the proper way to situate him over his shoulder. Usually the man was bound in some way- or unconscious- so having him free and squirming made it rather _exciting_.

“You always _ask_ before putting your hands on a lad-y,” the Joker damn near wailed, but didn’t struggle _that_ hard. He rather liked how Bruce’s shoulder fit against his ribs. Also the man’s hands on his thighs were enticing- pretty boys with those dark eyes, they simply did things to him. Bruce stopped at the doorway to the library, letting the Joker down and watching him push his curls back with those nimble fingers. “Besides, you could mess up my hair.” He lifted his chin, pouting his lips, and Bruce lost it, laughing again. That pout turned to a smile, an almost pretty one.

“How does a walk sound?” Bruce asked, brushing his hand back over his own short hair. “Some fresh air?”

“De- _light_ -ful.”

They only made it into the foyer before Alfred was rushing over, calling, “Master Bruce, wait a moment!”

“What is it?” He asked, moving in front of the Joker towards the door. He grasped the handle, before Alfred could open his mouth, and opened the door to the bright, spring sunshine-

And the loud _click_ of a camera shutter, followed by even louder chatter. Bruce froze, staring out at a crowd of reporters, all holding cameras, pens, even recorders and microphones.

“Mr. Wayne!” came the sea of too many voices, mingled with,

“Mr. Wayne, a moment of your time!” “

“Mr. Wayne, we have some questions!”

And, then, “Mr. Wayne! We hear you have the Joker under house arrest in the manor, _is that true_?”

_Oh fuck_ Bruce thought, before he slammed the door shut. _Oh bloody, fucking hell_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stayed up last night finishing this update instead of getting enough sleep before work. Oops <3

The Joker stared at Bruce, who was clutching the door shut tightly, looking over his shoulder. Behind them both, Alfred cleared his throat.

“I was trying to say, our perimeter security detected traffic. Seems it was far more traffic then we thought.”

“How the hell did they find out?” Bruce released the door, only to press his back to it. “Who the hell leaked this information?”

“Best guess, sir, would be someone from Arkham or the GCPD. Perhaps we should have been more thorough in our background checks.”

_Background checks_? The Joker kept quiet, filing that away for later. The present was far more interesting, and he was simply _so_ curious to see how pretty boy would handle the sudden media enlightenment. Part of him wanted to throw the door open and take the spotlight himself- he did so love the camera. So long as they got his _good side_.

“I can’t just leave them out there,” Bruce said, sighing. He glanced at the Joker. “I think we’ll have to postpone that walk. Would you...would you mind just going back to your room for now? This could get ugly.”

The Joker hesitated, could have disagreed- could have indeed thrown that door open. Could have done a number of things. All he did, though, was shrug on shoulder and offer the faintest of smiles. “Sure thing, dollface. Go out swingin’.”

He turned, walking away before Bruce could say anything. Alfred followed him, thankfully without Bruce having to ask. He watched them go, then turned to the door, taking a deep breath and opening it, stepping out to the sounds of the camera shutters flickering rapidly.

*

“Will you be needing anything?” Alfred asked after he had unlocked the door, and the Joker simply shook his head. He stepped inside, let Alfred lock him in, and waited until he thought the man was gone.

Then, taking a step towards the desk, he kicked the chair, sending it crashing over. It felt good to hit something, but it wasn’t _enough_. He wanted to punch a nice hole right through the wall. Topple over one of the book shelves maybe.

And for what? To what end? _Why_?

_Because you can’t go for a walk with a fucking pretty boy_? He gritted his teeth, pink lips baring them- but at himself, at the air in front of him, the sunlight from his bay window. Oh, he could claim it was because he gave up the option of putting on quite a show- of exposing himself on camera, getting a bit of a _scare_ in there. It could be because a walk around the outside of Wayne manor would have given him a great idea of the area he was dealing with- should he ever need to escape, should his plan to win over Bruce Wayne fail.

It could be over the fact that he’d _kill_ for a little fresh, moving air.

But if he was honest with himself, with the one person he _should_ be, it was exactly that- because his little date had been thwarted, taken from him. Because Bruce’s attention had been ripped from him, and for all he knew the night was utterly _shot_ now.

He flopped onto the couch, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw black spots behind his lids. His chest shouldn’t have been tight over being pressed to Bruce’s chest- stomach in knots when he had lifted him up. No no no _no_ \- and why had he fallen in the first place? It couldn’t have been Bruce’s hands on his waist, palms on exposed skin, that had set his balance off. No. No. _No_.

The Joker groaned, letting his arms flop to his sides and staring up at the ceiling. This, this was _not_ the plan.

*

“I’m not sure who has informed everyone that the Joker is no longer taking up residence in Arkham, but I can assure you, they were not acting on my behalf. However, I won’t be one to lie to Gotham. I do indeed have the Joker here, in my own home.”

The media went wild then, screaming questions at him. Bruce held a hand up, trying to calm them.

“Please, I will not answer any questions at this time. All you’re getting is this statement. I did this for the good of Gotham. I did this in the hopes that maybe, with enough effort, with a _different approach_ , we can fix this man. No good is done by letting him rot in Arkham, where he’ll only break out. We know the pattern, we’ve seen it. Something _else_ had to be done. And I’m trying to do it, here. I’m trying to show him that there is a different life he can have.”

“Mr. Wayne, isn’t this a reckless move?” Bruce frowned, hating that he was going to answer the question even after he had specifically said he would answer none.

“Maybe. But I have taken every precaution. His suite has tight security, and I had the plan approved by both Arkham officials and the GCPD prior to his transfer. He’s as secure here as he was at Arkham. My hope is that, come time, this security will not be necessary. Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to attend to.”

He wanted to tell them to get the hell off his property, but he resisted. Instead, he let himself back inside, locking the door behind him. From halfway down the stairs, Alfred was watching him.

“Is he in his room?”

“Yes sir. He went very...calmly.” Bruce nodded.

“Good. I have to do some damage control, Alfred. This could get a bit ugly.” Bruce ran a hand over his face. He should call one of his lawyers. Just to be safe. And he’d need to make a few company-related calls. Anything involving him always effected stocks- he’d want everyone to have a fair warning. It would all even out, he was sure, in the end. But the ride, well, it was going to be rough.

*

The Joker cat napped without realizing it. He awoke, on the couch, curled up with his back to the window, only when the door unlocked. “Pretty boy?” he mumbled, shifting about- rather comfortable, honestly.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Alfred said, rounding around the couch and standing at the end. The Joker peeked up, then dropped his head again with a sigh. “Master Bruce is...preoccupied. I worry for the evening. Would you care for dinner?”

The Joker pressed his face into the cushions, forcing out a “sure” that was barely more then a grumble. Alfred didn’t need much though- he had fully intended to arrive with food on his next visit whether the Joker had accepted or not.

The clown didn’t say another word, or even move, as Alfred took his leave. Not that he wanted to be _rude_ to the man, but napping always left him groggy, and he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Though, he wasn’t sure what he _had_ meant to do.

He could have taken a look at the few books that were left on the book shelves. But he was sure they would offer nothing of interest to him. Still, perhaps they were better then nothing.

He groaned, pushing as far into the couch as possible, thinking he might just go back to sleep. It was nice to sleep on something that _wasn’t_ an Arkham cot. Those things had springs that would dig into every sensitive curve of your body and keep you up for hours. There was the option of getting up and making his way to the bed- oh, now _that_ was like sleeping on a cloud- but the couch was by the window, and the sky would be turning that rich golden soon, then orange-

The colors of fire. Of gasoline burning. And he did so love them.

When Alfred returned, the Joker didn’t glance up. In fact, he decided it would be best to just pretend to be asleep. He didn’t particularly want to talk with anyone except Bruce- and since that wasn’t going to happen, why bother? It was foolish and he could chastise himself over it later, but in the moment it seemed alright.

When Alfred was gone he rolled onto his back, stretched, then hopped up. On the desk he found a tray- and though he wasn’t very hungry, he picked here and there at the food. With it were a few books, which he lifted, then shoved away. _Boring_ -

Until he reached the last one. Old, heavy, and a friendly, familiar sight. The one he had grabbed earlier- an old medical book, the one Bruce had deemed inappropriate.

He snatched it up, throwing himself back down on the couch and opening it up, flipping through. The illustrations were _priceless_ , and he felt positively giddy over the sketches of the old tools. Oh, how _fun_ they must have been.

He flipped back to the beginning, noticing a little piece of paper jostling free, sliding down past the pages. He opened the cover, pushing it up, better into view, clicking his tongue in amusement.

_I owe you a walk. I hope this makes up for it._

Bruce had signed his name beneath it, not that the Joker had needed it. He grinned to himself, running fingers over the letters- neat and controlled. He’d heard you could tell a lot about a man from his handwriting- and Bruce’s was simply too structured. Too clean.

Oh, how he’d enjoy making him slide between the lines.

*

Bruce was panting, his lungs burning inside his chest. Still, he pushed on, reaching the edge of a building and leaping, firing a hook off to latch onto the next roof. It took and his feet slammed into the wall. He started climbing, nearly throwing himself up over the edge and narrowing his eyes at the small frame opposite him, already jumping down.

He shouldn’t be this far behind- and he knew it. But his mind was reeling, crowded. He’d spent his entire afternoon doing damage control, trying to clean up the mess the media had left him with. But it was almost pointless- the story was published in every paper and website imaginable. Everyone knew where the Joker was now-

Which meant, all of Gotham’s underbelly knew as well.

Bruce had almost wanted to stay in that night, to make sure the Manor held up as a fortress- but he knew it would. He’d had to trust in the security that had, until tonight, always given him _some_ peace of mind.

He need to make it clear tonight, that anyone who attempted to take up an audience with the Joker would end up in the damn hospital. He had to make it known, even if just through Gotham’s shadows, that Batman wouldn’t allow _anyone_ access to Wayne Manor.

He reached the other side of the roof, glanced over and saw the fire escape below. He dropped, choosing to vault over the side, catch bars, prepell himself down, instead of running. His feet hit the ground below just as his target did, with wide eyes and a red mouth that went slack, then split into a grin.

“Why Bats, I was thinkin’ I’d out run ya this time!” Harley laughed, musical and terrifying and rather too much like the Joker’s, and Bruce reached out, grabbed her by her jacket, pulling her in close. She didn’t resist, just kept giggling. “Ya know, I heard some _interestin’_ news ta-day. Looks like someone sprung my Puddin’ from good ‘ole Arkham!” Bruce tightened his grip and she reached up with one hand, laying it against his fist. “You _did_ hear, didn’t-cha, Bats? Why, who’s more jealous- me, _or you_?”

She laughed again, a wailing cackle into the night, and Bruce lifted her off her feet, pushing her back against the building’s old brick wall. She grimaced, her laughter trailing off, and squirmed.

“I should go pay Mistah Wayne a visit. See how he likes my _sloppy seconds_.” She laughed again and Bruce jerked her, her head tipped back, cracking against the brick. Still, she laughed, grinned a wide, perfect red-and-white smile, something gorgeous and unnerving.

“Anyone who goes near Wayne Manor,” he growled, “Will end up in a full body cast for the next _year_.”

“Oooh Bats! Ya play so _rrrough_. Maybe you and I should take a spin. Ya might be my type.” She leaned in, and then Bruce felt bruising pressure on his side. She cackled as he grimaced, got her leg up and kicked him in the stomach, shoving him off. He stumbled, fell back- saw the heavy metal hammer in her hand too late. She walked towards him, biting her lower lip as she gripped her weapon. “But you’ve gotta keep up with me, _suga_.”

Then she was off, running back into the shadows of Gotham. Bruce pushed himself up, and decided with a huff he’d let her run. He’d stumbled on her by chance, and hopefully the little distraction had deterred her for the night from causing too much trouble.

Besides, the real point he’d wanted to make- that Batman had Wayne Manor under his watchful eye- well, he was fairly sure it had come across. He trusted Harley to talk, and talk _a lot_ , that word would spread. And fast.

Besides, she was one of the only people he was actually worried might come around. Most of Gotham’s underbelly was probably happy to have the Joker out of their way. And even Harley- well, Bruce wasn’t sure how eager she was to emancipate the Joker. She seemed to like running free of his chains lately.

*

The door unlocking woke him, dragged him up from the heavy sleep he’d fallen into. The Joker’s eyes fluttered open, glanced up at the ceiling, lit by the fresh morning sun, until Bruce stepped into view. He cracked a smile then, pushing himself up off the couch so he was sitting. The heavy book he’d been so entranced with fell from his belly to his lap.

“Well, good morning prince charming,” he purred, liked the way a tinge of pink appeared along Bruce’s cheeks.

“You know, you do have a bed you can sleep in.” The Joker shrugged a shoulder.

“I like it right here. Besides, I didn’t, ah, mean to sleep.” He ran his fingers along the book in his lap. “Thought this wasn’t _approved_ reading?”

“It’s not.” The Joker swung his legs over the couch and Bruce sat down. “But I felt bad with you in here with nothing to do. I know you’re not reading anything on those shelves.” The Joker smiled, shrugged a shoulder. “Plus, I promised you a walk, and it didn’t happen. I’m sorry.”

“I think I can forgive you,” the Joker whispered, drumming his fingers on the book. “Possibly. With a little work.” Bruce chuckled.

“Work huh? And what would I have to do?” The criminal licked his lips, reaching out to run his fingers along Bruce’s tie. He leaned in closer, tugging on it gently, holding Bruce still as he came into his space, took in his breath with a little smile.

“Just one simple thing.” His words were far too quiet, far too calm- and Bruce, his heart was hammering up into his throat, knowing this man was so close- those pink lips were a breath away, and his fingers itched to reach out, to grip him-

To pull him closer.

He was saved, however, by the sudden ringing of his phone. He pulled back and the Joker released his tie as Bruce stood up, pulling it from his jacket pocket. He glanced at it, then slid his finger along the screen to ignore it.

“I have to go back into the office today,” he forced out, trying to keep his voice steady. “But I brought you something else that might help entertain you.” The Joker set his book aside, standing up, his smile gone- lips set in a firm, unamused line. It was almost sad.

On the desk, Bruce had set a tablet when he first came in. The Joker walked over, picking it up, testing the weight in his hands.

“You can’t communicate with it- no e-mail, nothing like that. But you can read at least. Watch something. Anything like that.” Bruce reached up, rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I have to leave you here like this. I do feel bad.”

“Then play a little hooky, pretty boy.” He set the tablet down, folding his arms. “Stay home with _me_. Think of it dollface, like, ah, a lazy Sunday. A whole day spent in bed.”

Bruce swallowed, trying to calm his pulse, to remember to breathe. He wasn’t sure if the Joker was _serious _, or simply speaking in his little euphemisms. Either way, he was reacting with far too much interest.__

__“I can’t,” Bruce finally said. “But have dinner with me, when I come home. I’ll come straight for you, okay?”_ _

__The Joker said nothing, and Bruce had to hope it was a _yes_. He wished him a good day, and left the room as quickly as he had come- feeling like he wanted to run. Once outside, he closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, shaking._ _

__Had the Joker almost _kissed_ him? He was sure, he hadn’t taken _that_ the wrong way. He’d seen that look, plenty of times- but always when he was in his cowl. When the clown made his vulgar advances then- wanted to smear his lipstick along his mouth and let him sample each and every sharp tooth his mouth boasted._ _

__But...he wasn’t Batman. Not in that moment. He was _Bruce_._ _

___Does he still want you...even without the mask_?_ _

__Bruce ran his hand over his face, sucking in a deep breath, holding it. Then, because he had no other choice, he buried the thoughts, forced everything to recede down away from the surface, and made his way towards the stairs, towards his day, his life. This would have to wait._ _

__*_ _

__The Joker stared at the closed door for a minute, then heaved a sigh. He grabbed the tablet off the desk and moved to the window, settling in. He was angry- partially at Bruce for leaving, yes-_ _

__More so at the fact that he had given the man an option. Bruce should have stayed because he thought he wanted to, because he thought he had no choice. The Joker should have been able to instill that in him- should have him wrapped a little tighter. And why had he hesitated- Bruce’s phone, it shouldn’t have stopped him. He was fairly sure if he had kissed the man, he would have ended up pinned on the couch. Bruce seemed like the type to keep things pent up, things that simply needed to _burst_._ _

__So why? Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he pushed harder?_ _

__He tapped on the screen for a moment, began swiping through news stories. He sighed, sucked on his tongue- felt his scars tingling, itching- something they only did when he was truly uncomfortable. Usually with himself._ _

__He hadn’t because he wanted Bruce to kiss _him_. He wanted the man to stay of his own accord. He didn’t want to have to pull strings. He wanted the man to choose him._ _

__And that _pissed him off_._ _

__He stared down at the screen, slowly tracing the small, fuzzy figure at the corner of the news story. It was well over a week old, but the most recent shot of the Bat during one of his nightly runs. The Joker sighed, wishing the Bat had seen him before they’d moved him from Arkham._ _

__At least with the media going on and _on_ about him now, he was sure the man knew where he was. Perhaps he’d stop by. The Joker could go for a solid punch to his jaw, the taste of copper in his mouth._ _

__He felt like he needed it, to realign his senses._ _


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Bruce returned to the manor, he didn’t care that he wasn’t in the right _suit_ , he was ready to punch damn near everyone square in the jaw. His day had been nothing but sidelong glances, nagging questions, snide remarks- all over his _house guest_. It was tempting to simply fire half the company to shut everyone up.

It was even more tempting to fight back with the company his business partners chose to keep. But he kept quiet, he reasoned when he could- and for the most part, he simply ignored everyone.

Alfred greeted him, and Bruce was thankful he didn’t ask about the stress lines showing on his face, in the corners of his eyes and along his foreheads. He would rather not recount the day- he simply wanted to forget it had happened.

He wished he could simply sleep it off. But Bruce didn’t think he could spend a night away from patrol. Not yet.

He made his way upstairs, could have gone to his room first- could have taken some time to relax. Instead he chose to stop at the Joker’s door, let his hand rest against it. It only took a moment for him to truly make up his mind, to enter in the security code and open the door.

He was shocked to not find the Joker waiting. He expected the window, but it was vacant, as was the couch. Bruce headed towards the bedroom, stopping in the door way, finding the man sitting on the bed. He was staring down at the tablet Bruce had left him, the book Bruce had gifted him open and left an arm’s length away. Bruce didn’t speak at first, just watched him, the way green-blond curls fell along his face and neck, the placid set line of his lips. He still felt in awe that without his make up, without his suits, that the Joker looked so different. Even the green in his hair had faded considerably. Bruce guessed that, within a week, it would be mostly gone.

“Hey,” he finally said, realizing that if the man looked up and saw him staring it would be well beyond awkward. The man glanced up, those pink lips curving into a bit of a smile.

“Well, prince charming, back from the land of business suits and corporate, ah, _punishment_?” Bruce cracked a smile, walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers over the open book, glancing at the illustration of the bone saw on the page.

“Please tell me you didn’t spend your whole day reading this?” Bruce was sure giving him the book was a stupid decision, that any progress he made could be relapsed by whatever perverse thoughts the book gave him- but he had felt _guilty_.

The Joker shook his head, pushing a few curls back behind his ear. Bruce could see the clear lines of his scar, the side that curved up more like a grin. “No, no, _no_ pretty boy, I promise. I was a good little girl. Scout’s honor.” He winked, and Bruce glanced at the tablet, the archive of one of Gotham City’s newspapers open. Displayed on the prominent tab was an article about Batman from about a year prior- with an image of the Joker, looking rather bloody and broken, in the custody of the GCPD as they loaded him into a van set for Arkham. The Bat was clear in the shot, off on the sidelines, watching. “I was just revisiting some rather fond memories.” He smiled, and Bruce watched those eyes stare into the screen, pupils widen as he stared at Batman’s figure.

Bruce wasn’t sure this was any better.

“You know, since the, ah, media seems to have blubbered on and _on_ about me being here, you might want to get a guest room ready for the big bad Bat. He does seem to like to pay me visits.” The Joker giggled. “I hope you don’t mind my gentlemen callers, dollface.”

He glanced back at Bruce, through blond lashes, a few loose curls, and he felt devoured, drowning in something like acid- so close, almost a bitter, rough and grating on his skin, like it might remove a few layers. But whatever was left behind was _new_ , fresh. It made his spine tingle, goosebumps rising on his skin.

The Joker set his tablet aside, turning the face Bruce, reaching both hands out to run his fingers up along his tie. “Did you rush right in here to see little ‘ole me the moment you got in the door?” Bruce didn’t know what to say, struggled with a nod, and the man grinned. “Why sugar, you’re too much.” Those deft fingers loosened Bruce’s tie, yet he felt it was only getting harder to breathe. “You could leave a girl speechless.”

The Joker tugged, pulling Bruce forward by his tie, the curve of his smile showing the points of a few cannibal-sharp teeth. Bruce wanted them, wanted to know the sharp points intimately, wanted to know the scars on the insides of the man’s cheeks. His heart was hammering and he felt dizzy, nearly ill- sick with an infatuation that felt so ridiculous he couldn’t believe it was real.

Did he always feel like this? The racing of his pulse when he had pursued the Joker along Gotham’s skyline- surely that was from the excitement of getting the man off the streets, away from the public. It couldn’t have anything to do with the idea of getting his hands on taht frame, of touching, even when it was in violence. There was no way he _liked_ how perfectly the Joker’s knee fit into his ribs, or how his lip opened to Bruce’s gauntletted fist so easily.

And there was no way that any of that infatuation could correlate to something like this.

“Let’s get you a little more _re-laxed_ ,” the Joker purred, “before the night withers away on us.”

*

It had been fun watching Bruce’s cheeks flush, seeing those dark eyes go wide when he slipped into his space. The Joker reveled in it, wished Bruce had chosen to simply get comfortable right _there_. Lose a few layers- or all of them. Skin was a great look, after all.

But he had pulled away, even if it took a bit of time. The Joker had expected to be left in the room while Bruce changed- or did whatever he needed to- but instead this little prince charming was offering a hand, pulling him from the bed and guiding him towards the door. The Joker was upset he hadn’t clutched those fingers in his, so that Bruce had no choice but to hold his hand.

How tragically romantic.

Down the hall, inside Bruce’s room, the Joker let his eyes flutter around. It seemed set up like his own- minus the small sitting room one entered into. But he mused Bruce didn’t need one- the whole dman Manor was his, after all.

The Joker flopped down onto the bed, right onto his back, and threw his arms out, staring up at the ceiling. “You sleep on a cloud,” he mused, loving the way the blanket felt on his mostly bare arms, along the base of his neck- even the small of his back, where his t-shirt had rode up above his jeans.

He was still getting used to the damn leg shackles. But he didn’t hate them- or what they did for his ass. If he could just get the pretty boy to _look_.

“Are you saying your bed isn’t comfortable?” The Joker laughed, curling his socked feet in the blanket. He’d found purple striped socks that morning and had laughed for nearly five minutes. Whoever had picked out these clothes was eccentric and so _charming_. He wasn’t sure if it had been pretty poor and good old Jeeves.

“Oh no. Just saying yours is _more_.” _And wouldn’t I like to try sleeping on this cloud_. He giggled to himself, pushed himself up to glance at Bruce-

Who had his shirt unbuttoned, tie abandoned, and was about to pull it off. The Joker had no idea when he’d changed his damn pants- and was _angry_ that he had let himself get distracted. Still, this wasn’t a bad sight.

He bit his lip to keep from commenting, in case Bruce realized he was watching. As it was, he was looking away- thinking about lord knows what, and the Joker couldn’t have cared in the slightest in that moment. When the dress shirt slid away, he grinned, taking in the curve of muscle along Bruce’s shoulders and arms, the lines of it in the profile of his stomach-

And then, after a moment, the large purple-red bruise along his side.

“Did you get ambushed on your way back to the castle?” Bruce glanced over at him, as if he had forgotten the Joker was there, and looked down at his side. He was quick to grab the shirt he had pulled out, throwing it on quickly and working on the buttons with fingers that had a slight tremor.

“It’s nothing,” Bruce said, and the Joker narrowed his eyes. Oh, he was sure it was _something_.

*

The Joker’s comment was on Bruce’s mind all dinner. How had he been so careless to let him see the wound? The bruise that had been inflicted by his on-again off-again girlfriend, to make it worse. And possibly worse- what had he been doing, bringing the Joker into his room? What had he hoped would happen?

Bruce almost bypassed the glass of wine Alfred had poured him for dinner and gone straight to whiskey. But he didn’t want to numb his sense too badly-there was patrol still, after the night fell.

The Joker had joked about Bruce sharing the wine with him, but Bruce gently denied him. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to sabotage the whole plan- he still wasn’t over the fact that he had given the clown that book. He regretted it.

“You know, pretty boy, you still owe me a walk.” The Joker was staring out the large glass doors, at the golden skyline. Spring blessed them with a late sunset, but it was still late enough that it was starting. The sky would be an explosions of pinks and oranges soon.

“I suppose I do,” Bruce admitted, smiling across the small table. The Joker returned it, a pretty thing that shouldn’t have been. Not in the slightest.

*

Bruce disappeared for a moment, to return with shoes, and the Joker couldn’t help but giggle. Pretty boy seemed to have thought of everything, it seemed. He slipped into them, then followed Bruce right out those sliding doors, into the warm ending sunlight.

He stopped for a second the moment his shoes hit grass, inhaling. The smells of Gotham felt lifetimes away- rainy and dust and gasoline and the thousands of mingling smells of it’s _prisoners_ \- perfumes and sweat and food and their clothing.

This was something entirely different. The grass he could smell, the flowers, the dirt beneath it all. He swore he even smelled the sun. It was so much, so _new_ , that he felt dizzy within a moment, thought he would have to sit down, to try and process it all.

The idea of sitting the grass, of _touching_ it, only made him dizzier, a sensory overload that seemed to fry his brain.

“Are you alright?”

He opened his eyes, saw Bruce had stopped, was staring at him. The Joker forced a nod, swallowing despite his tight throat. “You spend long enough in the city you, ah, forget what everything else is like.” He reached up, pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, trying to collect himself, center himself around that touch, that pressure. A moment later Bruce was circling his hand around his wrist, guiding his hand down. He offered his arm, and the Joker took it, clutching it to him, enjoying the way Bruce felt so solid against him.

He felt like everything beneath his skin was water. And it made him want to _laugh_.

“I didn’t realize your sensory issues were so...intense.” Bruce wasn’t moving, and the Joker welcomed that. Without thinking, he pressed his face to the man’s arm, inhaled his cologne and the scent of his skin, the cotton of his shirt, the hidden tang of his soap. But it was easier to swallow then what was floating around the Joker’s head.

“Most don’t sugar.” His words were muffled, and he didn’t care. He wanted to fall into Bruce then. Everything was warm, and it made him drowsy. He inhaled again, finally lifting his face. His lips were absent a smile. “You all would rather believe I’m _crazy_ then think that I, ah, might see everything a bi-t differently.”

Bruce didn’t say anything, and the Joker squeezed his arm- a silent reassurance that he was alright. He was processing- oh, he’d be processing the ghosts of all the smells and sights and feelings and _tastes_ all night, but for now he could cope.

Bruce led him away from the house, out along the grassy space that surrounded it. Trees around the manor worked as a natural barrier, lines in the sand as to where Bruce’s dominion began. The Joker liked it, liked having a wall around the castle-fortress. Liked the idea of this pretty boy having a kingdom.

The only thing he liked more would be the Bat king and his kingdom- but that was Gotham city, that was lifetimes away- and that didn’t even cross his mind.

The Joker was so solidly in the present that Batman was nothing but a shadow in the back of his brain. The forefront now, the thing that seemed to take up all his focus, was _Bruce_. Bruce with that dark hair and casual half smile, the perfect pace to his steps as they walked leisurely past a patch of flowers in bloom- something yellow, like a child’s drawing of the sun. Something almost fake- on the borderlines of reality.

Bruce slowed, stopped, and the Joker realized he was still clutching his arm. He pulled back, wanting to clutch his arms to himself. It felt strange, whatever tugging and pulsing was going on in his chest- like he was _exposed_. A layer ripped right away to show the glistening bones of his ribs.

“It’s been a long time since I just walked around the manor,” Bruce admitted, looking out at the golden sky that had turned orange, hints of vermilion snaking their way in. The Joker followed his eyes, wanted to see the rich pinks of sunset, the colors that bled to black somehow after being _so bright_.

It was easy to miss when in the city.

“We’ll have to make a date of this more often,” the Joker whispered, not looking at Bruce, not offering a smile or a chuckle. He wasn’t kidding. He liked this, all of it, despite what it was doing to his senses, his mind. Given time, he would acclimate himself to it. He wouldn’t feel like he was dissolving.

Bruce’s arm reached out, slipped around his side, hand resting on his waist. He pulled him closer, and the Joker let him, let himself fall into the heat of his side. He inhaled, and audibly sighed as he exhaled. Bruce’s cologne might very well kill him, but sweetly so.

“I think I could live with that.”

*

Bruce glanced at the Joker, from the corners of his eyes, saw the man turn, look at him. The smile he offered was small, unlike what he was used to-

No, no he was becoming used to these. Small curves of his lips. Subtle.

The man let his own hand find Bruce’s back, clutched at his shirt gently, before turning and pressing right into his side. Both his arms were around him, and Bruce didn’t stop him, didn’t flinch away from the contact. If anything, the lithe body pressing against him was comforting, in some sort of sick, strange way.

Maybe it wasn’t actually sick. Maybe there was some sort of reason to it.

Bruce squeezed him, a single arm embrace, wondered what it was like inside that head. Not that he had never wondered- oh, he had. He’d spent many sleepless nights trying to see things through the clown’s eyes, trying to understand his lunacy. Now he simply wondered what he was feeling, what it was like to have his senses assaulted. He’d read the man’s files cover to cover countless times- knew that doctors had mused about his sensory perception, an over sensitivity that may have caused strange reactions and a disconnect between reality and what was inside the man’s head, as a coping mechanism. But Bruce felt then that there was far more to it.

Bruce took his eyes away from the changing sky, glanced down- caught the Joker watching him. Inquisitive eyes- _interested_ eyes, and Bruce felt his chest go tight- so tight he thought he very well could be dying.

Whatever happened to him then, he felt like pure nature, creeping up in his skin, guiding him. His mind was removed, but not dispassionately, only that he could slip into a mental state of lack-of-thought, could enjoy a sudden silence in his head. His free hand reached up, slipped under the Joker’s chin, tilted his face up. The orange glow made his skin seem golden, made his eyes a sort of hybrid amber- made the green seem to disappear from his curls.

He was a man in that moment. Bruce forgot the monster, the disaster, saw only pink lips and freckles and stray curls. And when he leaned down, when he hesitated over that mouth, inhaling the Joker’s breath, he saw the edge of his reason as it fled into the shadows of the trees.

The Joker gave him a moment, that brief second to fully lose himself, and then closed the gap, his mouth against Bruce’s _softly_ , sweetly, barely moving. A first kiss that was childlike.

Bruce pulled back after a moment, after the brief touch, his finger stroking over the Joker’s chin. He sought out those eyes, held them, neither speaking. Then Bruce leaned in again, his arm releasing the man, both hands finding his face, cradling it, thumbs finding his cheeks as he kissed him again. This time the initial shyness was gone, Bruce’s mouth pressing, wanting. The Joker gave back, tilted his head as Bruce stroked his skin, let his lips move against Bruce’s- the rhythm the man tried to set breaking with each kiss the Joker gave, and Bruce _liked_ it.

His thumbs touched the first ridge of a scar, and suddenly the Joker was clutching at his shirt, trying to get closer, inside Bruce’s very skin, a small sound escaping his throat for Bruce to swallow down. Bruce stroked along their shapes, careful to keep the pressure light, for the first time feeling their true shape. The curve of one like a caricature of a smile, the other more of a gash, a snide sort of smirk. Whatever ugliness they held seemed to fade as he realized he _liked_ the texture under his thumbs, likes the way that the Joker squirmed when he touched them.

Finally his hands slide back, into the man’s curls, forcing his head back slightly, making him bare his neck as Bruce let his tongue flick along his lower lip, the seam of his mouth. Then he was inside, and the sharp points of those white teeth he had been curious about were under his tongue, taking shape to be held in memory. And the Joker’s tongue was against his, making Bruce squirm inside his skin, his bones feeling a few sizes too small.

The Joker leaned closer, up, managed to get his own tongue to Bruce’s mouth for the briefest of seconds, before sucking on his lower lip, the points of his teeth grazing it, before he was released. Bruce felt his breath against his wet lips, small pants, ones that echoed his own. His pulse was humming with fire in his veins, and even as he let his hands fall from the Joker’s hair, down to his shoulders to rub along his arms, it didn’t cease, or even calm. Something had stroked a embers inside him, stoked a fire in his belly that had been festering for quite some time.

*

When he was escorted back to his room- without a word spoken, neither man having the breath it seemed to try and claim any- the Joker felt like he was being carried through a sea of static. His lips had that sharp, cotton filled feeling- like they weren’t real.

They had silently made their way inside after the kiss- a silent, universal consensus that the moment needed to be left- even if neither truly wanted to. And now, at the door to his room, the Joker wasn’t sure how to handle himself. Did he simply go inside, disappear out of Bruce’s life until the next day.

It seemed he didn’t have much of a choice. Oh, he would have pressed his back to the door, pulled Bruce in by the collar of his shirt, wrapped himself around the man and kissed him breathless, kissed him in a way that was meant for the shadows of the manor and not the setting sun. It was in him, the desire for it, inside his bones rubbed raw from the friction of that first kiss, the excitement that grated the bone down.

But he didn’t. Bruce entered the code to his room and the Joker gave him one last look through thick blond lashes, then disappeared into the rooms, into the shadows. Once the door clicked shut, he moved, quickly, running through the rooms and straight to the bed, throwing himself on it, face pressing into the pillows.

He inhaled, the warm arm, the scent of the pillow cases. In his mind, every bit of the outside world was trying to cave in, and he wasn’t ready. He could deal with those buzzing thoughts, the scents and textures that needed to be sorted later- or never, for all he cared in that moment. All he was concerned about was the feeling of Bruce’s mouth, of his hands in his hair, this thumbs pressing along his scars.

His face was hot, flushed, his cheeks throbbing. The pink tissue was sensitive, something he himself could touch after years of learning them over and over again, but seldom did he ever want another to get that close. Harley had, once upon a time, he’d let her in- but oh, she needed to be let in, in order to see _herself_. And at Arkham, the staff had touched before- he had bitten an orderly’s finger clean off once. That was why he had been assigned the mask- to make sure he didn’t try that again.

But Bruce’s hands, that had felt right. They had brought a soft heat, not the icy needles that his nerves more often then not felt. And his mouth, a melding pot of tastes and textures- lips, tongue, teeth, all of it leaving the Joker panting. Never before had a kiss thrown his senses into such turmoil- a mouth was a mouth, was a mouth, _was a mouth_ , and he knew them, knew what to expect. But something about Bruce simply threw his entire equilibrium to the wolves, left him scrambling to piece up the scrapes left behind.

He rolled to his side, curled in on himself, pressed fingers to his lips, then fanned out along his scars. His heart was hammering, wildly, made him feel dizzy again, like he might very well go into cardiac arrest. This wasn’t the plan, wasn’t the reaction he was supposed to have. Where was the control? Where was Bruce around his finger, begging for his kisses, his attention? Where was the pretty boy melting?

All the Joker saw was his own shadow, unraveling from the seams, his skin-suit falling away to expose the inner workings of muscle and bone and mind. _Vulnerable_.

No, no this wasn’t the plan at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are so grossly in love it makes me ill <3


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce barely slept. Patrol became a lie, and he didn’t even bother attempting to put on his suit. When Alfred had asked him that evening if he would be going, Bruce had simply shook his head. And he’d been thankfully when Alfred didn’t push the matter.

The night had been spent tossing and turning, half asleep, half dreaming really, reliving that brief kiss, that moment where he forgot himself, forgot Gotham, forgot everything that made up reality and accepted the Joker as the new path to truth.

He was horrified with himself, but at the same time he was out of his skin with a sort of excitement. When was the last time another person had made him feel that alive?

The answer, if he was truthful, was the last time he chased after the Joker, with his laughter crackling in the air like fresh dynamite.

Come morning, Bruce roused himself before Alfred even made an appearance, made his way down the hall and let himself into the Joker’s rooms. It was silent, the only light from the windows, and as he walked, bare foot and quiet, towards the Joker’s bedroom, his stomach knotted, a mix of excitement and knowing he shouldn’t be here.

The man was draped along his bed, tangled in his sheets. One calf was exposed, and the curve of his spine, his shirt riding up high from tossing and turning. The cotton t-shirt and boxer briefs were all he was wearing- not that Bruce expected much. He had almost hoped to find him like this, if he was honest.

Not that he would be honest with himself.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the movement causing the Joker’s eyes to flicker open. He stared out, drowsy, at Bruce, a sleepy smile spreading along his lips.

“Come to wake the princess with a kiss?” Bruce couldn’t help but smile, looking down at voice those eyes.

“Not exactly, no.”

“Well, what a-“ the Joker cut himself off, rolling onto his back and stretching, the expanse of his stomach revealed, “-shame. She would’ve liked that.”

Bruce didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t just lean over and kiss the man. Whatever had happened, it probably shouldn’t have- and oh, how he wanted to believe that, to embrace it. But it was hard, when it had felt more invigorating then anything had in a long, _long_ time.

The Joker settled again, pushing the sheets aside, silently inviting Bruce. He stared for a moment, told himself this was crazy- then slid in, stretching out as the Joker closed the gap, nestled right into the curve of his side, inhaling his heat, the scent of sleep and skin and everything this man was.

“So is this part of my planned _therapy_?” the Joker asked, fingers playing over the buttons on Bruce’s pajama top. The man sighed, staring up at the ceiling- unable to keep an arm from curling around him, finding the bare skin at the small of his back and pressing gently. The Joker stretched against him, a unique set of curves and groves, muscle and bone, and Bruce loved every little slide of his frame against his side.

“Pretty sure this is against any and all therapy guidelines.” The Joker giggled, pressing his face into Bruce’s shoulder. “Speaking of, you’re going to have a visit from an Arkham doctor again today. I... wanted you to have a heads up.”

“The same boring little thing? Or are they sending more _fresh blood_?”

Bruce fought down a shudder at the choice of words. “I’m not sure.”

“Mmm, well, are they going to find us snuggled in bed, _darling_? That would make for an interesting case write up.” Bruce tried to pull away, but the Joker held onto him, pulling himself up so he was resting on the man’s chest, staring down into his dark eyes. “Relax sugar, I’m simply _playing_. I wouldn’t think you’d, ah, run such a _risk_. I’m sure you’ve got a pretty reputation.”

“So you can see how crazy _this_ is?” Bruce waved his free hand. The Joker giggled.

“Sweetcheeks, look who you’re talking to. You’ve all dubbed me, ah, simply _bat shit crazy_. But I’m not. I’m no-t.” He pushed away from Bruce, from the bed, paced around rolling his neck to wake his muscles up. “I’m simply painfully _aware_ , pretty boy. I’m so painfully sane I simply can-not _stand_ it.” He glanced at Bruce, and the man watched the small burst of energy drain from the Joker. “Probably shouldn’t be found in the princess’s bed, if you don’t want the dragon to be woken up.”

Bruce didn’t need to ask. Without a word, he got up, moved past the man and towards the door- not really sure what he had hoped to accomplish that morning, but feeling he had done nothing but throw himself a thousand steps back.

*

The Joker dug his nails damn near into his scalp in the shower, teeth gritted. He was mad at himself, more then at Bruce. Sure, he’d wanted pretty boy to curl up with him in that warm bed and waste the morning away- but he could have _pushed_. No need for sarcasm and bitterness, it wouldn’t get him anywhere.

But he was bitter, and so easily so. Whatever the hell had happened last night- with his senses, with Bruce’s mouth, with his heart in his throat, it had thrown his entire existence for a loop. And suddenly, the damn man seemed to be popping up more and more in the shadows of his mind.

He wanted him. He wanted him to want him. Need to be needed, whatever the case was, he wanted Bruce to come swooping in and give him every bit of passion he had ever craved.

The suds that rolled down his arms and shoulders had a hint of green to them, like spring tears. Soon, he’d be blond, entirely. Soon, the last traces of the man Arkham had cast out would be gone- and oh, he’d have a new face for the public. He doubted pretty boy would entertain the idea of some hair dye for him- why, he hadn’t even asked for lipstick yet.

He had considered it, the first night. When he’d wanted to smear it along the man’s neck, leave a nasty little mark that the shower might wash away, but would forever stain the mind. But now- now it all seemed to fade. Whatever face he’d had, presence, it was dispersing into nothing, and he wasn’t reaching to grasp onto its threads.

By the time his door was opened again, he was dressed and sitting by the window. The same doctor as last time came in, followed by a GCPD officer. Bruce stood at the doorway, held the Joker’s gaze for a moment, then closed the door.

“How are you this morning?” The doctor settled by the desk, clicking her pen, and the Joker chose to look out the window, instead.

“Oh, you know. A princess in her tower.” There was a moment of silence, the sound of pen on paper. “And without her prince charming.” The Joker leaned his head back, glanced up towards the bright sky. Too bright, enough that his pupils dilated, shrank down to near nothing, and his brain was flooded with the sensation, the light not only a sight, but a feeling, a texture, a taste.

“Mr. Wayne told me you have been out of the room. How did that feel?”

“Oh my, it was simply _wonderful_.” The Joker turned fully, letting his socked feet touch the ground. “Why, pretty boy has wined-and-dined me, and took me for a little romantic stroll. What a catch!” The woman frowned, tapping her pen on her pad of paper, and the Joker rolled his eyes. “Oh sugar, don’t look so _serious_. Are you jealous? I know he’s, ah, quite the _catch_.”

“Your word choice is an interesting one. Why not use his name? I’m not sure I’ve heard you even say it, once.”

“Why use a name, we all know who I mean when I say _pretty boy_.”

“Do you find Mr. Wayne attractive?” The Joker narrowed his eyes for a moment, and the woman poised her pen. “Or- perhaps a better choice of phrasing- are you attracted to Mr. Wayne?”

He hesitated a moment, trying to pull himself in, find that fragile center. Then, slowly, he walked towards her, only stopping when he was looming over her. He reached out, plucked her pen from her hands, moving it between his fingers as a smile crept onto his face.

“Would it be a problem if I was, _doctor_?”

“It could be a distraction from your therapy.” She leaned forward, her paper settled on her lap, under her folded hands. “It’s important to build healthy relationships- but too much of a connection to Mr. Wayne could prove detrimental, should that relationship sever.”

“So basically, you’re afraid of little ole me getting my, ah, _heart broken_?” He chuckled, even as the woman kept a firm, stoic expression on her face.

“As a matter of fact, yes. I am.” The Joker cut his laughter off, staring at her, narrowing his eyes. “But you did not answer the question.”

“Oh doc, you just _want_ me to admit to a little schoolgirl crush on _prince charming_.” He stuffed one hand in his pocket, fingers twitching. He wanted to hide it. The other stopped toying with the pen, clutching it instead. “Tell me first how _you_ see him.”

“I view Mr. Wayne as a very active member of Gotham society, and a successful businessman.”

“That wasn’t the, ah, answer I was looking for sweetcheeks.”

This time, she smiled. “And I view him as a very attractive man, yes.”

“Ah, but that doesn’t mean you want to put on a princess gown and waltz down an aisle with him, hmm? So perhaps I can call him _pretty_ and it doesn’t mean _any-thing_.”

“But I think it does mean something. But perhaps that is beyond my question.” The Joker clicked his tongue. His grip on the pen was turning his pale knuckles near-white.

“Maybe I am attracted to him. But I don’t see a, ah, _problem_ with that. Want to go over my list of lovers? You all know my track record. Why, she’s all over the news I’m sure, causing plenty of trouble without me.”

“Would you like to discuss Dr. Quinzel?”

“I would _not_.” He looked down at the pen, tossed it into the air, caught it and clicked it open, leaning in in one fluid moment and holding the point to her neck. At the door, the GCPD officer tensed, hand going to his gun-

But she held her hand up, stopping him.

“You know, I could have this thing inches deep in your neck before that sad joke of authority over there even got his hand on his gun.” He sneered, baring the points of his teeth. “And I could watch you bleed out all over pretty boy’s expensive carpet. But-“ he leaned back, pulling the pen away and dropping it in her lap, “I _won’t_. And you can thank him for that. You can thank Mr. Prince Charming for your life.”

She picked up the pen, tapping it, her face expressionless. “And why would Mr. Wayne have anything to do with it?”

“Maybe I don’t like the idea of the face he’d make over all that blood.” He folded his arms over his chest, fingers gripping at his shirt.

“You don’t want to displease him. I think you’re looking for Mr. Wayne’s _praise_.” The Joker ground his teeth together, regretting that somehow he had not deterred her. Most would have been more then happy to end a session there, with their lives in tack.

“I think _you_ are the crazy one.”

“Say his name.” She lifted her pad of paper again, pressing her pen to it. “Say his name, I’d like to see how you react.”

The Joker stared at her, wanted to stare through her, into the wall, the foundations of the manor. Into the core of the Earth for all he cared. He’d like to fall directly into it. Anything but this.

“Bruce Wayne,” he finally forced out, keeping his breath even, his stare steady. He felt the twitch in his bones, but kept it from muscle, from his lips.

His pupils, however, expended.

*

Bruce was on his phone when the doctor left- he gave her a polite nod, and nothing more. He should have gone into the office- but he couldn’t bring himself to. He felt as if something was unfinished- as if there was some sort of frayed thread still tight between him and the Joker.

He didn’t like that the Joker had had that bitter edge to his voice when he left his room that morning.

He didn’t like that he had gone there in the first place.

And he hated that he wanted to go back.

His absence had forced him to miss a meeting, and he was simply trying to cover damage control. _Again_. It felt as if that was his whole life- but then again, if he were to give it more then half a second’s thought, it was.

He had barely hung up when Alfred arrived, holding a mug out to him. Bruce smiled, taking the coffee with a _thank you_ and wanting to simply drown in it.

“Would you like me to call and reschedule your afternoon meeting, sir?” he asked, and Bruce laughed.

“I have a secretary I can call to do that, Alfred.”

“Ay, but that boy has a terrible time of keeping track of anything. I have your entire calendar, sir, and on more then mere _post it notes_.” Bruce smiled, took another sip, then shook his head.

“No Alfred, it’s fine. I’m going to go check in upstairs and then head to the office.”

“Very well, sir. I shall have dinner ready when you return. And don’t forget about your arrangement tomorrow.”

Bruce had begun heading for the stairs, stopped a few up to stare back at Alfred. “Arrangement?”

“You had that...date, sir. With that lovely editor, remember? For the premier of the Opera. It has been on your calendar for a good month.” Bruce frowned, and Alfred sighed. “So, I should cancel it, sir?”

“Please.” Bruce turned then, heading up the stairs quickly. He let himself into the Joker’s room, found him at the window, flipping quickly through his book. Almost angrily. He glanced up at Bruce, said nothing, and turned back to the book. Bruce stared at him, waited a moment, and when the Joker said nothing, forced himself to speak.

“Did your talk go well?”

“Do talks with _shrinks_ ever go well?” He still didn’t look up. “I expected you to run off to the next kingdom.”

“I wanted to make sure you were...alright, before I left.”

The Joker stopped, glanced up through his blond lashes, his curls. There was something dark in his eyes, and for the first time since Bruce saw him confined to his straight jacket and mask, he was truly unnerved. This looked like the man he had thrown into Arkham countless times.

This looked nothing like the man he had kissed the evening prior.

“Funny thing, pretty boy- is that no one ever thinks I’m _al-right_. That’s a thing, when they think you’re crazy. They think everything is _wrong_.” He closed the book, pushing it off his lap to the window sill. “So, sugar, don’t ask if I’m _alright_. You know the answer.”

And Bruce did. He knew, very well.

And he knew that he had messed up. He had messed up _so badly_.

He left without another word, gripping his mug as if it could hold him down to the Earth. At the base of the stairs he called to Alfred, handing off the mug and simply saying, “I’ve changed my mind. Don’t cancel the date.”

And then he was gone, escaping one reality for another. Oh, he had simply too many.

*

The Joker waited until Bruce was gone, until he couldn’t hear anything through those walls- not that he could hear much, but if he tried, he could hear the ghosts of sounds, the ideas. And when he was sure he was alone, he lifted the heavy book in his hand and hurled it across the room, watched it smack the wall, flop down to the carpet, lifeless.

He wanted to hurt something. He wanted blood, gasoline, the smell of smoke, the feel of insanity on his lips. It was bubbling in him, a wrath that felt like an old friend, like home.

Oh, he was stupid. He knew it, in this small sliver of silent time. Stupid to let a psychiatrist get him talking- stupid to think that Bruce would come back and wrap those arms around him and say he had been wrong that morning. That whatever _this_ was, it wasn’t wrong. It was simply _too right_ , too real, too much. Just like he was _too_ sane.

And if it was crazy, then fine. He was already given the title, he might as well live the life.

The Joker raked his hands through his curls, inhaling sharply through his nose, letting it hurt his head. It shouldn’t have mattered, none of this should have- but nothing had felt as _right_ as Bruce Wayne had, in that moment. He’d let him under his skin, with a single kiss, with a string of words and glances over less then a week.

_Less then a bloody week!_

He laughed then, letting it rip through his throat, vibrate over his teeth. The Joker laughed until there was nothing in him, and even then he tried, let it all tapper off in rasps and wisps of broken sound. Oh, he felt _absolutely insane_ for once. Crazy like he only ever did for the Bat.

Maybe that was what was truly terrifying. Until this moment, his affection, his true passion, it had been directed at something that was _meant_ to hurt him. He had always been braced for it- oh, he might have hoped that Batman would breakdown one day and kiss his lips instead of splitting them, but he never truly expected it. He expected the pain, the rejection. He expected to be broken.

Somehow, with Bruce, he had let himself expect something different.

He stormed from the room, slamming the light switch in the bathroom. He ripped his shirt off, throwing it aside, and leaning over the sink, gripping it and staring at his reflection.

The man that stared back wasn’t him- or was, his ghost, his essence, with a new seal, new shell. Green eyes that didn’t seem to sink into his skull, not without his make-up. Pale skin but not porcelain, not China-white. Freckles, little dots that made him seem so fucking _human_ -

And a mouth that was harmless. He tilted his head, bared his neck, eyes followed the line of a scar on his collar bone- one of the brutal kisses his Bat had given him what felt like lifetimes, eons ago. He could see others, on his shoulders, arms, chest. All over, some small, barely visible- others prominent, like someone had filed the cracks with the wrong paint.

He was a monster inside the skin of a man. And this skin, it was _too tight_.

What had he let himself believe, for a moment, inside his brain where even his conscious mind couldn’t reach? That Bruce could have affection for him, could stand to see all the busted seams of his person-suit, could see the wet bones of the disaster that was resting just beneath the surface.

That Bruce could love him?

He leaned closer, pressed his forehead to the mirror, and closed his eyes.

The sad part, the pathetic part, the part that made him think that maybe, maybe everyone was right about him, maybe he was simply _insane_ \- was that he wasn’t totally convinced that Bruce wouldn’t love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little New 52 reference that I couldn't help- and another Hannibal one. Oops.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter isn't as...thrilling as the others. I apologize. The next one will hopefully turn out better.

Bruce couldn’t bring himself to ask the Joker to have dinner with him- he had to have Alfred do it for him, had to have Alfred face his rejection. The man didn’t eat, and Bruce was worried about it- worried about a lot of things.

His patrol was short, he was too preoccupied. He couldn’t believe he had let himself go so easily, had let himself set back the progress he had seen the Joker making.

He’d gone and let curiosity get the better of his senses.

He only hoped he could stop the damage before it got worse- set things right. He wanted to see the Joker succeed- he wanted to think that maybe, just maybe, there was a fix out there for him.

Because the only other option- that there _wasn’t_ , that men like him existed and couldn’t change, well that was simply too terrifying to contemplate.

*

The Joker didn’t see Bruce the next morning- his only company was Alfred, who brought him breakfast. He might have not even acknowledged the man- except for the cup of tea that he brought into the bedroom, and set on the Joker’s nightstand.

“There is already sugar in it,” the offered, as the Joker glanced up at him. He sat up, and, try as he could to avoid it, smiled slightly at Alfred.

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything I can get you?” He shook his head, watched Alfred take his leave, before reaching for the tea, taking a sip and letting it sting his tongue with its heat. It was overly sweet- which was exactly how he liked it- and blessedly caffeine free. He didn’t need a sensory overload, on top of everything else.

He sat in bed with it, then roamed the rooms for a bit, stretching his legs, before settling on a shower, watching the green in his hair disappear yet another shade.

Everything he was was simply fading away.

When his door opened that evening, he expected Bruce. And he braced for it, tried to steel himself from where he sat on the couch, flicking through more news archives. More grainy photos of Batman. His heartache sought the joy of broken bones and lilac bruises.

It was the only true affection he thought he might know.

Instead, Alfred appeared at the door again, and the Joker’s hardened stare softened. Alfred gave him a small, but almost sad, smile. “I thought perhaps you might like to stretch your legs?”

“Did Bruce send you to ask for him?” He set the tablet aside, pushing off the couch.

“No. Master Bruce is out for the evening. I came of my own will. I thought it not fair that you spend your entire evening locked up here.”

“Is that smart, Jeeves?” The Joker folded his arms, studying the man. Alfred didn’t flinch under the stare- and the Joker could appreciate that. “I mean, I am a _dangerous_ man.”

“Oh certainly. Don’t think I haven’t studied your records quite thoroughly. But I also know you have been rather the puppy since you arrived.” The Joker sucked on his tongue, felt the barbs of insult- but wasn’t sure the man meant it like that. He let it slide. “Besides, I believe I can hold my own, should you decide to misbehave.”

“Mmm Jeeves, that could be a fun theory to test.” He walked towards him, gripping the heavy door’s edge and leaning on it, offering up a smile. “But you know what? I think I could use a change of scenery.”

“Then do come downstairs. Master Bruce may be gone, but I have baked a marvelous cake I would hate to go to waste.”

“You speak my language,” the Joker teased, following Alfred out of the room, feeling himself lifting, growing lighter.

*

Bruce opened the door to the manor, allowing the woman on his arm to walk in first. Her expensive heels clicked on the floor as she looked around, planting hands on her rounded hips. “This really is quite the place, Bruce. Does it feel weird, so much space for just you?”

“I do have company,” Bruce responded, closing the door and locking it. “Alfred has been here since before I was born. The manor really is his as much as it’s mine.”

She made a small sound, folding her arms. Bruce wrapped one around her shoulders. “Word is you do have a new _roommate_.”

Bruce tensed. He had hoped to completely avoid the subject of the Joker. So far, they had. But he hadn’t held his breath on it- after all, she was Editor to a string of entertainment media. The date, when originally planned, Bruce had hoped would allow him to show off the stable life he had here. That way, when it came out that he had brought the Joker into his own home, at least Gotham would know the space was safe.

Except that plan had backfired since word had leaked about him being here. Now, Bruce wasn’t entirely sure why he had gone through with the date- aside of trying to save face, slightly. But bringing her home- it hadn’t been necessary.

Maybe he was trying to prove something to himself. She was pretty, after all, with brown waves and matching eyes.

She could be all he needed to prove to himself that whatever affection had been boiling up in him for the clown had a limit, a specific point they didn’t pass.

“I was hoping we would be able to have an evening without having a conversation about that.” She rolled her eyes, but leaned into Bruce.

“Oh, we’re going to talk about it. But maybe in the morning?” She glanced up, and Bruce could see it working, for the night.

Until he heard laughing- loud and wicked and free- but it’s wickedness came from how utterly true it was, how it was given with abandon. His date tensed, then swiftly moved from under his arm, towards the laughter. Bruce hurried after her, calling out, but she didn’t listen. He didn’t expect her to.

Down a few hallways, the source was found in a shadow cast room. The Joker was sprawled on a couch, one leg thrown up to hook on the back, his eyes glued to the flashing lights of a television. On it was an old Sci-Fi movie, in black and white, that seemed to have him nearly losing his mind to laughter.

Bruce paused in the doorway, distracted for a moment by the way the lights played on his skin, cast deep, engraved shadows along the small grooves of his scars.

“You laugh, but this was a favorite of mine when I was younger,” Alfred was saying, from where he sat in a separate chair- his back nearly to Bruce and his date, so he had not yet noticed them. “Sure it was a bit dated when I watched it, but I quite enjoyed it.”

“Oh Jeeves, I’m en-joying it, trust me.” He grinned, then rolled his head back, glancing at the doorway, and his smile dropped away. Bruce caught his stare, held it, and could barely breathe as the Joker pushed himself up, had stolen his gaze back, before turning on the couch. “Looks like prince charming left the kingdom early.”

“Master Bruce!” Alfred stood up, straightening his clothing and making his way over. “I did not anticipate you back yet, sir-“

“Looks like he brought a damsel back.” The Joker hopped off the couch, sauntering over. He shouldn’t have held any power in that walk, in jeans and a t-shirt and those striped socks- but his eyes were terrifying in just the light of the television, and his lips, they were perking into a smile. “Not bad taste, pretty boy,” he admitted, stopping to glance her over. “Tell me, dollface, were you in _di-stress_?”

She shrank back, and Bruce put an arm around her shoulders, mentally screaming at her for being the one to run towards the man, towards the sound.

“He’s just...out,” she whispered, and Bruce gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“He has been a very well behaved guest,” he offered, “And it’s cruel to keep him locked in a room day in and out. What better is that then Arkham?” Still she shrank back, and Bruce could see the sick pleasure in the Joker’s face over the scare he was quite obviously giving her.

“If I’m too scary, we can take this to my room,” the Joker offered, raking a hand back through his curls, pulling them away from one scarred cheek. Showing it off. “I’m _right_ next to pretty boy here. Why, I’m sure I’ll get to hear whatever lovely _conversations_ you two have all night.” He winked, and Bruce saw Alfred moving before he could even respond, the man pushing- albeit very gently- and guiding the woman from Bruce’s hold, out into the hallway.

“Allow me to drive you home,” he said, “I know Master Bruce had a very taxing day prior to your date- and it is quite late. If you would like to have a word with him regarding this situation, I am sure we can arrange something at a later time. Or perhaps I can answer a few questions on the drive.”

Alfred’s voice faded, and Bruce stared at the Joker, gritting his teeth. “What the _fuck_ was that?”

“What? I was having a little _fun_ , sugar.” He grinned. “I didn’t mean to chase away your little bit of fun for the night. So sorry about that.”

Bruce reached for the man, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and and turned him, shoving him up against the wall. The Joker laughed, reaching up, covering Bruce’s hands with his own.

“Oooh, what a grip! Careful _pretty boy_ , you’re reminding me of an Ex of mine. And I’m, ah, still a bit smitten with him.” He laughed again, and Bruce wanted to punch him, split his lip open, knock his skull into the wall until the man’s laughter was broken. He wanted to _hurt_ -

But he wouldn’t let himself. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go- he couldn’t let the Bat bleed into him here.

“I didn’t expect you to be down here,” Bruce forced out, letting go of his grip on the Joker, who didn’t move form between him and the wall.

“You mean out of my cage? Ah well, Jeeves seemed to have some sympathy for me. He’s quite good company, you know. So, was I the topic of your entire _da-te_?”

Bruce sighed, stepping back, turning away from the Joker and falling down onto the couch, tipping his head back. “No,” he admitted, “No, not until she heard you laugh.”

“Ah, shame. I do love the spotlight.” He eyed Bruce in the harsh lights of the television, wanting to laugh, to continue to be bitter. But it was hard, when he looked taxed up beyond his means, when he seemed to seep out of his skin and bones with fatigue. Instead, he took a few steps closer, choosing to push his hands into his pockets, to make himself shrink. “But ah, I’m...I’m sorry if I scared her away.”

Bruce’s eyes snapped open, and he turned his head, staring at the Joker. He fidgeted under that gaze, feeling strangely torn open again. Not to the point he had been when they were outside, but still- a layer of underskin exposed that he would rather keep hidden.

It seemed no matter what he tried, he would always get to this point around Bruce.

“Tell me you didn’t just apologize.”

“I can _lie_ if you want, sugar.” Bruce sighed, and the Joker dared to walk towards him, carefully slipping into the spot on the couch next to him.

“Probably for the best, honestly,” Bruce whispered, lifting his arm and stretching it along the back of the couch. “I really don’t care for the company of anyone involved with the media.”

“She was fairly, ah, cu-te.”

“Still.” Bruce glanced at the Joker, let his hand hang off the back of the couch to toy with a few curls. “Maybe there are better ways to spend tonight.”

The Joker felt his ribs crashing in, and silently he cursed the way his throat constricted.

“I owe you an apology,” Bruce continued, “For whatever happened. The past few days. I...I didn’t really react in the best way.” The Joker didn’t say anything, but gave in to the itching within his skin and leaned closer, slipping into the curves of Bruce’s side. The man’s arm slid down off the couch to envelope him, keeping him firmly in place. “And I’m probably not now, either.”

He Joker reached an arm around Bruce, inhaled his cologne and felt dizzy. Oh, whatever bitterness he had held, he felt it drowning, washing away. He felt himself relaxing, like someone had reached into him, caressed every organ and bone, every fiber of muscle, until he was lax.

“Depends on your definition of _best_ , sugarplum. I think this is a good reaction.” Bruce squeezed him, internally screaming at himself that this was the exact mess he was trying to get out of- but he couldn’t care. For a minute, at least. It was a mess he could easily enjoy. “Besides, what’s it, ah, hurting?”

“Your recovery?” The Joker giggled, pressing his face into Bruce’s shoulder to muffle it. Bruce could feel his body vibrating with it.

“Would it _hurt_? You and that Arkham doc should, ah, talk. You agree on the stupidest things.” Bruce stared down at him, and the Joker glanced up, then chose to bury his face back into Bruce’s shoulder for a moment, to inhale him again. “She asked if I was, ah, _attracted_ to you, pretty boy.”

“And what did you tell her?” The Joker pushed himself up, slightly, staring Bruce right in his dark eyes.

“The _truth_.”

The next moment, the Joker was kissing him, giving neither a moment to actually _think_ about the action. He reached one hand up to clutch at Bruce’s jacket, arching up, squirming until he was on his knees so he could properly lean into him- and Bruce, in the moment, curled on arm around him, the other reaching for him, fisting in the hem of his shirt.

“Stop me,” the Joker breathed into his mouth, “ _if that’s what you want_.” He sucked on Bruce’s lower lip, let the points of his teeth tease it, before Bruce pulled him fully into his lap, the Joker losing his balance, falling into him so they were chest to chest, losing his pull on the kiss and giving Bruce the moment he needed to get his tongue in his mouth, to pull out the sweet sounds from the base of his throat.

The Joker straddled him, nearly clawing at his jacket, his shirt, needing to hold on. He would have let Bruce stop him, if the man had tried. He would have torn himself away, into pieces, if Bruce had asked.

But Bruce was only clutching him closer, kissing him until the Joker simply couldn’t breathe, had to pull away to gasp for breath. In the dark, he could barely make out Bruce’s eyes, as he himself was blocking most of the single source of light. But he could _feel_ them, bearing into him like black acid, and he shivered- rocked down against him without truly meaning to.

And that one single movement changed the following kiss, the way the Joker pushed right up into Bruce, seemed to climb him as he kissed, as Bruce grabbed those hips and squeezed- could leave bruises if there hadn’t been clothing in the way. The Joker reached for Bruce’s face, cupped it to keep his face tilted up, enjoying the way that when he rocked, Bruce was following each movement.

A sharp slam of the door, however, broke the kiss. Bruce shifted and the Joker lost his balance, falling back, sliding off the couch and landing right on the floor. The impact wasn’t too forceful, and within a moment he was laughing, wrapping his arms around himself and giving in to the giddiness welling up in him.

Bruce started laughing as well, even as Alfred entered the room to quirk up an eyebrow at the two of them.

“Well, I’m glad to find you both in such good spirits,” he mused, “Master Bruce, your...lady friend is safe at home. I apologize if my actions may have caused displeasure.”

“No Alfred, it’s quite alright.” Bruce got up, extending his hand down to the Joker and pulling him up to his feet. “But it’s late, I think I’ll be taking this one to bed now.”

The Joker bit his tongue to avoid laughter- to keep from giving Alfred any idea as to what might have occurred- but also to keep his excitement in. He wondered if Bruce had even realized what he said-

And had he meant it?

Oh, that was a _whole_ different side to the attraction. And one that the Joker wasn’t against.

“Thanks for the company,” the Joker tossed to Alfred as he was pulled by him, taken up the stairs quickly. Once they were at his door Bruce grabbed him, pushed him right up against it and kissed him again, the Joker mewling, trying to hook a leg along one of Bruce’s.

“So, taking me to bed, ah, pretty boy?” he whispered, and Bruce smirked, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Yes. But to your own bed.” The Joker pouted, felt his body shake as Bruce kissed his chin, the line of his jaw.

“Aw c’mon sugar, _have a little fun with me_.” Bruce shook his head, even as he dipped down to the man’s neck, teeth grazing along sensitive skin. Beneath his shirt, the Joker had goosebumps.

“Not tonight. Give me at least a night to deal with the fact that I must be absolutely insane.” The Joker laughed, hooking his arms up around Bruce’s neck as the man straightened.

“Well dollface, one of us _has_ to be crazy. Might as well be you.” He leaned up, kissed Bruce one last time- softly- and then, “But if your pretty ass doesn’t wake me up with a kiss, I’ll show you _real crazy_.”

Bruce smiled. Oh, he was sure he shouldn’t have- but he did. He couldn’t help it, there was something about the vague threat that was _endearing_.

Maybe the Joker was right. Maybe one of them simply had to be crazy.


	8. Chapter 8

When Bruce woke up the next morning- early, considering his night had ended far sooner then originally planned- he was, thankfully, in his own bed. Alone. And as much as he wanted, the very moment he woke up, to feel something of the Joker’s- anything from his curls to those long fingers, the scars on his cheeks- he was glad, for his sanity’s sake, that he was alone.

Whatever damage he had thought to undo he had surely done again. But this time, as he stared at one of his pillows, he didn’t feel guilt over it. Or much of anything, really, except for a bit of excitement, an ache of loneliness- which stemmed from the fact that the Joker was a wall away, and not there.

Bruce forced himself up, slipping quietly from his room into the hallway, and down to the Joker’s. He let himself in, walked slowly into the bedroom, and found him sprawled on his back, sleeping soundly. Bruce smiled to himself, gave himself a moment to simply _look at him_ , before he made his way to the bed, the Joker’s words echoing inside his head-

He wanted to be woken up with a kiss. Bruce thought he could oblige him that.

Once at the bed, he leaned over, very gently pressing his lips to the man’s, expecting to peck him only- but then the Joker was reaching an arm up, curling it along Bruce’s shoulders, holding him there as the kissed him with a sleepy but willing mouth, until Bruce was sure his lungs have shriveled to nothing and was pulling back.

“You’re awake,” he breathed, and the Joker cracked a grin.

“I heard you open the door. Not too sneaky, _pretty boy_. You’ll have to, ah, try _harder_ to sneak up on me.” He stretched, shoving the blanket and sheets from the spot next to him. “Now get down here before I pull you in myself.”

Bruce shook his head, chuckling but obeying, crawling in over the Joker’s legs and slipping into the sheets next to him. The Joker rolled onto his side, grabbing Bruce’s arm and pulling it over his side, forcing his body back into Bruce’s until they were knit together. Bruce leaned forward, pressed his face into the Joker’s curls and inhaled, closing his eyes.

If anyone had ever told him he’d be _spooning_ the Joker one morning, of his own free will, he would’ve called them crazy.

Now that title was his, and his alone.

Still, for the moment, that didn’t seem to matter. He was still concerned over this, whatever it was, this affection, but he didn’t feel the need to bury it, as before. Perhaps it could be useful to this man’s recovery, after all. Maybe in Bruce’s affection, the Joker could find whatever it was he needed to truly _get well_.

“You’re thinking too much,” the Joker whined, shifting his hips- pressing further into Bruce with his ass, and making the other’s mans cheeks tinge pink. “I can hear the gears in your brain just _churning_.” The Joker laced his fingers in with Bruce’s, the man’s hand resting on his belly. “Care to share with the class what’s inside that pretty head of yours?”

“Just...this. All of this.” The Joker clicked his tongue, leaned his head back, so it pressed just below Bruce’s shoulders, and he could just see him, through his blond lashes, his mostly blond curls.

“Do me a favor, pretty boy. Don’t _think_ so much. Just _act_.” He leaned forward again, sighing as he closed his eyes, shifting again- and Bruce tried to back away slightly, but the Joker pulled on his arm, keeping him closer.

“Don’t fidget so much,” Bruce complained, inhaling through his nose and trying to keep a sense of calm. It had been a while since anyone was against him like this- and maybe that had been part of his goal last night, not to simply build up a bit of a wall against the public, but to relieve some of the tension that was building up inside him. Tension that this position wasn’t helping.

“Mmm why not sugar?” He shifted again, arching his back a little as he stretched, then unlaced his fingers from Bruce’s and reached back, grabbing his hip as he pressed up against him. “You’re _lying_ if you say this isn’t a good way to spend the morning.”

And he would be, Bruce knew. Because he always felt an _excitement_ around this man- expect usually, he had the Batsuit as a guard against it, had the fact that he got to touch the man in a violent-intimacy. But here, the mask of violence was gone, the suit didn’t exist- and Bruce couldn’t be Batman, couldn’t have any sort of excuse for the ache in his groin the Joker often left him with.

He could only be himself, and that was unsettling, to say the least.

Even more unsettling was that he was half hard, and he _knew_ the Joker knew.

Bruce wasn’t sure he was ready for this yet. The affection, the desperate kisses, he could level with it. But an actual sexual desire, an actual want to share that sort of intimacy with this man- that was a step he didn’t know if he could take.

“Still hear those gears churning, darling.” The clown shifted, rolling around until he was facing Bruce, and slid up against him, his bare legs entangling with Bruce’s. The Joker’s state of half dress helped his situation in the worst way possible. “Don’t make me _shut them up_.”

The Joker leaned up, pressed his lips to Bruce’s chin, then along his jaw line, hands running along his chest, toying with the buttons on his shirt. Bruce didn’t stop him- honestly, he didn’t want to, the way those scarred lips traced the bones of his jaw, nipped at the lobe of his ear, it was too sweet-

And then the Joker rubbed their hips together, and Bruce felt just how much the other man was enjoying it. His cheeks tinged darker, and the Joker started giggling, letting his head drop down to Bruce’s shoulder as he laughed, but stayed flush against him. The vibrations made Bruce’s hand clench, his skin feeling tight.

“You’re cute when you blush sugar,” he whispered, kissing his cheek. “Lemme guess, that pretty brain of yours is going _oh, this is too fast!_ And that mantra is on, ah, repeat?” Bruce nodded and the Joker gripped his chin with one hand, holding his face steady as he stared into those dark eyes with his own, the smile lines around his eyes gone, as his mouth was set in a serious line. “Whatever you’re _afraid_ of, sweetcheeks, lemme tell you, it’s not worth it. Whatever little nagging thoughts are bubbling up in you, _shut them down_. Fear isn’t worth it.”

When he kissed Bruce, the man was in awe, as scarred lips moved slowly, lazy and warm, as the Joker clung to him, moved along his body in a way that had Bruce groaning. Not in awe of the sensations, the way he seemed to fit every curve, every groove of muscle and bone- well, perhaps there was a bit of awe for that- but for the man’s _words_ Bruce was struck. A criminal like him, a madman, should not have been able to say something that rang so utterly profound for Bruce that it _did_ stop the thoughts, the reservations.

Maybe he wasn’t crazy. Maybe he was as he said- maybe the Joker was just painfully sane. Maybe Bruce had a lot left to learn, far more then he had expected.

Bruce held him close, locked his arms around him, devouring the Joker’s lips, his tongue, those teeth. The Joker’s hand was at his hip, pushing his shirt up, gripping onto skin, thumb rubbing the sensitive flesh above the rise of his pants. Bruce could have pushed it away, but he didn’t, all he did was kiss the man deeper, clutch at his back, along the curve of his ass, trying to keep him close.

_Fear isn’t worth it_.

The Joker’s hand slipped under his waistband, pressing to the warm skin along his hip.

_Fear isn’t worth it_.

Along the line of muscle then, and he was palming Bruce’s cock, drinking down the moan Bruce gave him as he wrapped his and around the base. It took a bit of maneuvering to get his other hand, which was trapped beneath him, up to Bruce’s hips, to pull the two layers of fabric down to free his erection, but he managed, smiling against the other man’s mouth as he was rewarded with a shiver, as the air settled over Bruce’s heated skin.

“Fear’s not worth it.” Bruce couldn’t tell if that was in his head, or if the Joker was speaking again, but he was stroking him slowly, bringing Bruce up each hill of arousal with such a controlled ease it was terrifying- or would be, if Bruce could think that far.

“That’s it sugar,” he breathed against Bruce’s lips, his tongue flicking out, tracing his bottom lip- but not kissing. “See how good it feels to _not be afraid_?” Bruce tilted his head back, pushing up into that hand as that mouth found his neck, kissed and sucked on sensitive skin, memorizing Bruce’s pulse, the taste of his skin, the feel of his heartbeat throbbing down in his cock from his excitement.

He chuckled as he stroked Bruce slightly faster, at the way the man eagerly thrust into his hand then. He was close, the Joker could tell, could taste his excitement in the air, feel it with every breath Bruce gave, and oh, _he wanted it_.

Bruce himself was like he was separating from his skin, just slightly. Like the control he typically had during any sexual encounter was stripped from him, and all he could do was go with the Joker’s every motion. Still, as he squeezed his eyes shut, vision threatening to waver if he didn’t close his eyes, he didn’t hate it. No, in fact, he rather liked abandoning the control and giving it to someone else, allowing someone else to lead him by a leash.

“C’mon _pretty boy_ , the Joker was urging, finding Bruce’s ear again. His breath was hot, like there was a fire inside him that warmed everything that touched his body, dared to enter it. “I like you like this. But I wanna see you _completely unravel_.” He squeezed and Bruce sucked in his breath, feeling the slight rise of a scar on the heel of the Joker’s palm as his hand traveled up his cock, as that patch of skin brushed the head of his cock. Bruce made a noise, a little whine, and the Joker nipped at his ear lobe again, nearly gasping himself, “C’mon sugar, _come for me_.”

Bruce groaned, turning into a soft cry as his hips jerked, and he _obeyed_ , couldn’t say no, wouldn’t even dream of it. He came into the Joker’s palm, along his knuckles, as his head spun, the knot in his belly and his spin tightening to the point that it tore, that sensation of pure static pleasure finding its way through his arms and legs, to his fingers, his toes.

When it subsided, when Bruce sagged back into the mattress, the Joker was smiling, pulling back from him and sitting up, watching with those green eyes. When Bruce finally opened his own, looked up, those smile lines were back, those cheeks high lighted with freckles.

The man had never seemed more powerful, and yet more harmless. And Bruce didn’t _care_.

*

The Joker could have sat there, staring at Bruce all morning. But he was pushing himself off the bed, walking for the bathroom sink and washing his hands as quickly as his legs could carry him.

He wasn’t disgusted in any way by what he’d done- oh, it was the exact opposite. But it was overwhelming suddenly, and he needed a moment to pull himself together. The cold water gave him a sensation to focus on, and his reflection in the mirror gave him a moment of grounding. Yes, he was definitely still within his skin. Same scars, same eyes, same freckles. He wasn’t dreaming, no, this was too _intense_ for a dream.

He dried his hands, racked them through his curls and let his cold finger tips shock his scalp, then made his way back to the bed. Bruce had fixed his clothing, was sitting up against the pillows, and opened his arms to the Joker as he crawled onto the bed. He didn’t have a moment to situate himself, Bruce instead pulled him onto his lap, wrapping those arms around him and kissing his temple.

It was sweet. It made the Joker’s belly hurt, something fluttering and thorny inside.

He reached up, went to press his hand along Bruce’s neck, to curl it behind him, and the other man jerked back, suddenly laughing as the Joker tore his hand back. “Your hands are freezing,” Bruce teased, and he released his hold on the lithe man, gathering up his hands in his own to warm them, daring to kiss the tips of his fingers gently.

The Joker felt heat in his cheeks flaring, and now it was his turn to be the blushing little bride, to stare with wide eyes at the man who wasn’t even looking- who was busy studying one cool hand, turning it over to examine the palm, the scar at the base. The Joker wondered if Bruce realized just how gorgeous he was- oh, he assumed he had to know, with him being such a _hot commodity_ all over Gotham- but he was stunning when he looked so distracted. There was something child like in his eyes.

“Where did this come from?” he asked, tracing the scar with one finger. The Joker looked over his head, towards the window, with the heavy curtains left half open. Stared at the light streaming in, onto the plush carpet.

His mouth should stay shut. He could come up with an elaborate story, if he wanted. Say something about how he had caught a Batarang with his bare hand, how he had thrown it back at his Bat and _laughed_.

“Glass,” he said, instead, as if there was a disconnect between his reeling mind and the motion of his lips. “When I was young. I caught it before I could be stabbed with it.”

Bruce glanced up at him, his exploration stopping. The Joker glanced at his dark eyes, then away, unable to hold them.

“How young?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled his hand back, cradling to himself. What had he said about fear having no worth? Maybe he had lied a bit. But this was the exact opposite of what he had meant to do, to say.

This was the truth.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to pry.” Gently, Bruce coxed his hand back, pulled it to his lips and kissed the faded scar. “You’re just a curious thing.”

He should have laughed. There should have been a come-back for that. But the Joker was silent. Instead, he let his eyelids slide half closed as Bruce kissed the scar again, his other hand reaching out, gripping at Bruce’s shirt, holding himself steady.

“Should I not?” Bruce asked, and the Joker was shaking his head, trying to relax his muscles and failing.

“Just-“ he paused, licked his lips, tried to keep his very core from shaking. “ _softly_.”

And Bruce smiled, the smallest curve of his lips, the warmest embers in his eyes, and he stroked his thumb along the scar, gently, enough to know it was there, but nothing more. The Joker exhaled, leaned down, found his mouth and kissed him- lacked teeth, lacked forced, just wanted his mouth on his, wanted something sweet, slow.

Wanted there to be affection.

And Bruce gave it to him, released his hand and reached up, cupping his face, gently running his thumbs along the scars on his cheeks. The Joker trembled, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s neck, whimpering as he did it again, unable to stop himself. The touch was enough to drive his senses up, up to a buzzing state- but the fact that Bruce _listened_ , was sweet and slow in that moment, that was what pushed him over the edge, filled his head with a sharp buzzing, made everything feel like it was too much.

He should have pulled back. He should have centered himself, worked through each sensation, until he was clear in the head. Instead, he pushed further, continued to kiss Bruce, even tipped his head back as Bruce broke the kiss, baring his neck, but still the scars along his cheeks. Baring his very life for a brief moment.

Bruce pressed a kiss to his neck, whispered, “You know...it’s not fair that you...” he trailed off, and the Joker, were he not flooded, would have giggled, would have teased Bruce for his inability to say, what, _didn’t get off?_ but then, in that moment, he could barely breathe.

“It’s fine,” he whispered, and then Bruce was kissing his chin, his jaw- the ridges and grooves of one scar. He gasped, clutched at him, the sensation different from any other touch he had felt to them- different from any other kiss.

He was sure he could very well be dying.

“It might be too much,” he tried to reason, as Bruce braced one hand against his back, helping to steady him. He pulled back, tilting his head- and oh, there was that child like glimmer to his dark eyes, something so sweet it was sickening and yet the Joker craved it.

Bruce’s hands moved to his sides, down them slowly, and the Joker felt his chest tightening, the ache in his own groin far from gone- but he could manage. But Bruce’s hands held his hips, thumbs traced patterns into exposed skin, as he kissed his jawline.

“Show me,” he whispered, “Show me how to make it _just enough_.”

The Joker’s hands were trembling as they moved, and he cursed them, cursed himself, hated that what he had controlled minutes ago now was entirely out of his hands. But Bruce’s voice, it was impossible to deny- it didn’t command, it asked, and the Joker didn’t want to deny.

He slipped one hand beneath the waistband of his underwear, gripping himself as the other pulled them down, until his cock was freed. Bruce kept his hold on his hips, kept him steady, as the Joker stroked himself, slow, slow enough that it hurt more then anything.

It gave him something to cling to, a clutch, and another few painfully slow strokes and he had some ground to stand on. But oh, Bruce had found a scar along his hip, and he was stroking that now- and the Joker felt his clutch slipping.

“You’re okay,” Bruce whispered, “Hey, look at me.” The Joker glanced up, held Bruce’s dark eyes, and the man smiled. “Good. See? It’s okay.” A squeeze of his hips, fingers on that scar, and the Joker was stroking faster, leaning in, needing Bruce’s mouth. Needing to not breathe. To not have the choice.

Bruce kissed him _just_ the way he wanted, penetrating him in a way that was borderline vile- taking breath and every little sound the Joker gave, as he began to tremble. He was so close he was dizzy. He felt every fiber of Bruce more then he did his own hand, the patterns on his finger pads, the lines of his lips, every curve of his teeth and tongue. The Joker whimpered, gasped into Bruce’s mouth as every took hold, as his orgasm shook him, his strokes almost frantic as he rode it out, until there was nothing left in him.

Bruce’s hands left his hips, his arms wrapping around the Joker, pulling him in. He rested his forehead on Bruce’s shoulder, panting, as one hand traced along the curve of his spine. Bruce was _hushing_ him, turning to kiss his curls affectionately.

The Joker wasn’t sure what this was, this strange sort of giddiness inside him, this tightening ball that his orgasm hadn’t relieved. Each touch Bruce gave him made his chest tight, and the fact that he was so casually _soothing_ him- it was frying every nerve ending in his brain. He wasn’t sure he could handle it.

“You okay?” Bruce asked, and he forced a nod, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“I think I just, ah, need a minute.” He licked his lips, shifting a bit, wanting to curl up with Bruce, to fall back asleep against him. To give his brain time to rewire. “And I think I might need to wash my hands again...”

Bruce started laughing then, so hard he shook, and the Joker cracked a grin.

*

Bruce left him long enough for each man to shower and dress. He was expected for a meeting that day, but called as he made his way back to the other man’s room that he would be unable to make it. He didn’t give an excuse- he didn’t feel he needed to. Everyone was going to think what they wished- and maybe they were were right.

Not maybe, they were.

He was choosing to stay home with the Joker instead. The reasons just might be different from what others expected.

He unlocked the door and found the man leaning against the back of the couch, waiting for him. Bruce smiled as he walked over, taking his arm and following him out of the room. Once down the stairs, Bruce wasn’t shocked to find Alfred bustling about, offering a smile to the two. If he was unnerved by the Joker’s closeness to Bruce, it didn’t show.

“Good morning. Would you two care for breakfast?”

“Yes. But I think I’m going to make it,” Bruce said, smiling so hard his cheeks damn near hurt. But he couldn’t stop. He felt positively giddy, like a child. He felt _in love_.

Those were words he didn’t allow his brain to even process.

“If you’re quite sure, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, with his eyebrows quirked up. The Joker was giggling, squeezing his arm tighter as they made their way towards the kitchen. Once there, Bruce moved about as the Joker hoisted himself onto the counter, watching him with alert and highly amused eyes.

“Why pretty boy, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to impress me or something.” He reached up, twirled some of his hair playfully, kicking his legs. “When I think I’ve been _impressed_ already.”

Bruce blushed as the Joker winked. He set the bowl down he was mixing in to move over to the man, slip between his long legs and place his hands on his thighs. The Joker’s giggles slowed, turned more to a chuckle as he wrapped his legs around Bruce.

“Mmm, careful Bruce, I don’t think Jeeves would much care for us, ah, getting _down and dirty_ right in the kitchen.” He grinned, wickedly, but Bruce barely saw it. He was distracted more by his words, the way his lips and tongue had said his name-

For the first time directly to him.

Bruce reached a hand up, ran his thumb over one scar and leaned in, kissing the Joker quickly, softly. “You actually said my name,” he teased, and the Joker frowned, blushed a little- the slightest pink behind those freckles, along those scars.

“So?” Bruce shrugged, his other hand moving up the Joker’s thigh, his hips, pushing under his shirt to rest on his waist.

“It’s just nice,” he admitted, “To hear you actually address _me_.” If Bruce was honest, it was nice because then he knew that the Joker wasn’t building a facade around him, wasn’t using him as a sort of place-holder-

For what? Who? Oh, Bruce knew the answer, and it was something he couldn’t think about, in that moment. Wouldn’t even let his brain register the twisted snare that this could so quickly become.

_Batman_.

“Well, my darling little Brucie, I guess I can, ah, try to oblige you.” Bruce smiled, kissed him again, and thought that breakfast could wait for just a minute. He had a few more kisses he was interested in taking.

And, truthfully, the world could wait when those kisses were offered to him.


	9. Chapter 9

Bruce’s days turned into a mix of mornings with the Joker, afternoons at Wayne Enterprises, and nights spent intimately with the shadows of Gotham city. He had been cutting his patrols shorter then usual, to ensure he got a few hours sleep before he crawled into the Joker’s bed- but it didn’t seem to be an issue. The city had quieted recently- and he wasn’t sure if that was due to the fact that the Joker was nowhere near it’s streets, or if there were other reasons.

Still, as he stumbled out of his bed, yawning, he wanted nothing more then to fall back asleep. He had a fresh bruise on his thigh from a bit of a mishap- or, a missed step, a near fall, and his thigh meeting the ledge of one of Gotham’s older buildings. It ached, and only told him he was beginning to over extend himself- but he almost didn’t _care_.

He let himself into the Joker’s room, and made straight for his bed, sliding in next to him before the man even reacted. Half asleep, he rolled over, curling up into Bruce, who happily tucked his arms around him, resting his chin on the top of his head and closing his eyes.

He might get those few more hours of sleep, after all.

*

The Joker woke up sometime after Bruce had crawled into his bed, happily tucked up against his chest. He yawned, nestling into his heat and keeping his eyes closed, smiling to himself. It was always a nice way to wake up, with him appearing from thin air, like one of his three wishes. Oh, he could get used to it.

...Could he? Dare he? Whatever was going on with Bruce, it wasn’t what he was used to, or what he had expected. To seduce the man? Sure, that wouldn’t have been very hard. But this? There was an affection here he hadn’t planned on.

He almost didn’t care. What did it matter? He was content, in that moment, sighing to himself and running his foot up along one of Bruce’s calves, trying to tangle in closer. The other man shifted, eyes opening, and moved enough that he could look down at the Joker, who glanced up with those pretty too-green eyes. With his sleepy smile lines.

“Morning _sunshine_ ,” he cooed, fingers playing along Bruce’s shirt. “Did you have sweet dreams, dollface?” Bruce smiled, kissed the man’s forehead, down one cheek, pecking at freckles until he got the tip of the man’s nose. The Joker giggled, squirmed like a child as Bruce held him tightly.

“I might still be dreaming,” he admitted, “and if so, then yes. I definitely did.”

The Joker rolled his eyes, but smiled, oh-so sweetly, genuine, and managed to roll away from Bruce, pushing himself up and running fingers through his own knotted curls. “You’re a _cliche_ , Bruce Wayne,” he offered, but kept his smile none-the-less. He rather liked Bruce like this.

*

The Joker had draped himself out on a couch while Bruce drank coffee, caught up on the news on his tablet. The television was off, and the sitting room was rather peaceful. He chose instead to look outside, through the window at the far end of the room. He itched to go outside again. To give his senses another chance to take everything in, begin to file each detail away until he could handle it. He prided himself in building a tolerance up to Gotham city, to Arkham- he wanted to do so here, as well.

After all, there didn’t seem to be a date in sight as to when he would be _leaving_.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, entering the room, and glancing first at the man’s coffee mug- although Bruce moved it away before he could get a good luck. He was capable of getting his own coffee, he’d told Alfred multiple times that morning already. It amused the Joker. “Would you have any problems if I were to keep our guest out of his room today while you were out? I do think I could use some help with a few things. If he’s up for it.”

Alfred glanced at the Joker, who gave him a smile, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stretched out more on the couch. He wasn’t sure if he believed the man that he needed _help_ with anything- Alfred didn’t seem like the kind of man that ever needed help. He thought he was simply trying to be _nice_ , to keep him from having hours spent locked in that room to his own devices.

He appreciated it, even if he didn’t admit it.

“That’s fine,” Bruce said, then, glancing over his tablet at the Joker, “I was thinking, there’s really no need to keep anyone locked inside a room all day, whether I’m here or not.” The Joker held Bruce’s gaze over the tablet, liked the small smile that curved on the man’s mouth.

No more locks, then? He felt his bones vibrating under his skin with excitement over that. But mostly, it was from the look Bruce was giving him, that adoring gaze with those dark eyes that made his belly undiluted.

*

Alfred _hadn’t_ been lying when he had said he would have liked the Joker’s help, and shortly after Bruce had left, he found himself with the Butler in one of the rooms on the second floor, which it seemed Alfred had been spring cleaning. The Joker was stuck carefully unshelving books from a shelf, so that the entire thing could be thoroughly cleaned, and then putting them back in the exact same order.

Had the company been different, it might have been maddening.

He had learned, through the afternoon of Alfred talking rather freely, that the office belonged to Bruce’s father. Bruce had taken another room in the Manor to serve as an in-home office, and this one was kept almost exactly as it had been when Thomas Wayne still inhabited the house. Alfred made a point to give it a thorough cleaning once a year, aside of the usual spot cleaning he did through out the entire manor.

“Bruce hasn’t been in here in a long time,” Alfred admitted as he wiped down the old wooden desk top. The oak gleamed in the light from the open window- something the Joker had asked for, would have begged or even opened himself if Alfred hadn’t complied. The chemical smell that would have over taken the room from the cleaning would have been nauseating, he knew.

Now, the smell was tolerable, background noise, mixed with dust and the sweet scents the breeze was bringing in. Every time the Joker walked by the window he inhaled, let his brain buzz for a moment as he took it all in. Like he was allowing his brain to study for the exam, when he went outside again.

“I used to find him in here, as a child. Shortly after. Sometimes in the middle of the night. I always thought it might have been when he had a nightmare.” Alfred carefully wiped down the leather chair by the desk, staring at it as if he was seeing a ghost. “He’d be curled up here, asleep by the time I found him in the morning.”

The Joker said nothing, staring as well at the chair, trying to imagine a small Bruce curled up, scared, clinging to a ghost that might have once put him back to bed and checked his closet, his bed for monsters. He could joke, if he wanted, that he was reacting poorly to losing that by bringing the monsters to the bed himself.

But he had never been in Bruce’s bed, and he didn’t feel the need to enlighten Alfred on whatever sort of affair was growing between he and the rich boy. He knew Alfred wasn’t dumb, and he was sure he must be catching ideas here and there- but he felt it was _rude_ to rub it directly in his face. And this man, he had been kind to the Joker, when he easily could have been cruel. He wasn’t one to care so much, but the Joker felt he owed Alfred a bit. At least an ounce of respect.

“I’m sorry,” Alfred finally said, “I did not mean to blather on like a fool. Age seems to be setting in.” He straightened his jacket, then pointed at a book shelf, “Would you mind working on that one next? I would like to have this completed before Master Bruce returns home tonight. I try to keep him from knowing when I’m in here.”

“Sure,” he offered, smiling a small, non-threatening smile at Alfred, and turning to do exactly as he asked.

*

“Take me outside,” he had whispered, that evening, after dinner. After Bruce had already settled in to relax- was chatting with Alfred. The Joker was settled on the couch next to Bruce- too close, probably, with his legs folded up and the sole of his foot pressed against Bruce’s thigh. Alfred hadn’t said a word about it, but he had given their position a brief moment of pause, to study. The Joker had flashed him a smile, and Alfred- he almost swore the man had smiled back.

Bruce glanced over at him. “Right now? It’s already dark. Wouldn’t you rather we go tomorrow. Maybe for a walk in the morning, before I go to the office.”

The Joker shook his head. He had seen the grounds around the manor at sunset- he wanted to see them in the dark now.

“Please?” He held Bruce’s stare, who paused to think on it for a minute, then smiled, reaching an arm around his shoulders and squeezing.

“Alright. C’mon, let’s go now before it’s so dark we can’t see.”

The Joker had expected perhaps a comment on the situation, but Alfred was blissfully quiet. The Joker wondered what he could have been thinking- and why it seemed to matter to him.

His first steps outside were easier this time- the darkness like a sweet blanket, one he was used to working under. He still clutched Bruce’s arm, but more so now simply from a desire to be close to him. The scents seemed to have _cooled_ , and his brain didn’t short-circuit as he inhaled past the flowers blooming. It was refreshing.

Bruce wasn’t speaking, and that was alright. The Joker didn’t necessarily have anything to say to him, and that was alright, he thought. He was content as they building became a looming shadow behind them, as they walked the grounds, along the lines of trees that separated Wayne Manor into its own little world.

The Joker had missed the night. He felt it then, the way darkness kissed at the back of his neck with the cool wind. The moon high above his head, a glowing orb against the speckles of the stars. IN Gotham it was hard to see the sky like this, only in the most abandoned parts of the Narrows, if you were high enough on a roof, could you begin to really see. It didn’t compare to the sight here, but this wasn’t startling or _new_ , it simply made him feel at home.

Night had, as well, always meant it was time for his favorite visitor. And the Joker, in his finger tips, held a sorrow suddenly over the thought of Batman. Why, he had yet to even make an appearance at the Manor. He had expected him to, to throw him against a wall and threaten him, that if he disobeyed, if he hurt Bruce in some way, he’d be in a full body cast for half a year. He had expected _something_ , but if there had been a sign, a visit- it was to Bruce, and Bruce alone, and he wasn’t sharing.

What would his Bat do now, he did wonder, if he knew the extent to which the Joker had let another under his skin? Would he feel jealous? Would he dislike that the clown had found interest in another, that the Joker’s undying obsession with him had seemed to fade, slowly, during his time here. It was far from gone, but it receded, taken up the hallows of his brain while he focused his attention on Bruce.

“How would you feel,” Bruce said, slowing his steps, “about a trip to Gotham.”

The Joker stopped walking, allowed Bruce his arm back as he took another step or two, before stopping, turning to watch him in the natural dark. “I would have, ah, thought that you had been advised to not take me into the city.”

“Well, I was. But I don’t see a reason not to. I’m not going to treat you like a prisoner. I want you to...to feel like this isn’t some sort of life sentence you’re living out. I’d like this to be real.”

The Joker felt his fingers shaking, and shoved them in his pockets to keep Bruce from noticed. _I’d like this to be real_. Did he mean the Joker’s recovery- or something else, whatever sort of bond was forming between them? He sucked on his tongue, almost afraid to ask, and then Bruce was taking the few steps to him, reaching for his face, tracing his jaw, back into his blond curls. The last bit of green had washed out that morning, and with it, the Joker had felt an odd sense of self slipping down the drain as well.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to me,” Bruce admitted, looking almost sad that he couldn’t completely understand. “But I...I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want you to stop. You’re...you’re not the man I expected.”

“I’m not a lot of things,” the Joker admitted, but he wanted to press Bruce- oh, what had he expected? What he he seen glimpses of, that day when the Joker was led into his home, masked and restrained? What sort of monster did he believe he was welcoming home.

What nightmare had he been trying to live?

“No, you’re not. You’re not a lot of specific things- but you _are_ something. And I...I may have misjudged you. I thought I knew you.” How much could he know from old files, from stale video footage? Truly, how much could Bruce have ever known of him, before he heard his laughter in person, before he felt those finger tips mapping out along his chest, his neck?

“And now?” he whispered, feeling his ribs closing in over his lungs.’

“Now I _want_ to know you.” The Joker felt ribs pierce his lungs, felt everything inside him caving in, and he leaned in, found Bruce’s mouth, kissed him as if this movement of his lips could tell the man his entire life. He didn’t have words for it, sometimes he barely knew what had once been real life and what had been fantasy. His past, it had been multiple choice for as long as he dared to remember. It simply made things easier.

But part of him wanted Bruce to have some sort of truth to cling to. One little sliver of knowledge, to allow him at least the small glimpse inside the Joker’s head. Anything, truly.

“Jack,” he whispered, and Bruce stopped kissing him, stared down at him with a puzzled gaze. The Joker could taste his heart in his throat, taste the iron, the fear, and his hands were shaking. He wanted to hide them, but they were pressed to Bruce’s chest, along the low line of his ribs- and he knew the man felt them quaking. “My name,” he added, licking his scarred lips, “is Jack.”

Bruce was silent for a moment, before those hands left his hair, and his arms were around him, pulling the lithe man against his chest and holding him there. He didn’t fight Bruce, pressed his face into his chest and inhaled his cologne, and let him stroke the top of his spine.

“A name is important,” Bruce whispered, “When you want to know a man. It’s nice to meet you...Jack.”

He shook, once, felt his entire body wanting to shut down. A name he hadn’t used in so long, it could have been someone else. Should have been- was, for so long. But now, faceless of the Joker he was, Jack felt like he had been there, simply waiting for someone to wash the dirt anf grime away, and find him waiting. Patiently.

He smiled, couldn’t help it, laughing quietly at Bruce, daring to look up at him. “You know,” he whispered, “It’s nice to meet you too, Bruce.”

This time, Jack let Bruce kiss him, and he did it so slowly that he was sure they were having a silent conversation, stretching out in the spaces between seconds, the fibers between reality.

When they returned inside, Bruce ushered him back upstairs, as if he needed to have him in the shadows, not to hide him from anyone, but to keep him, contain him, for himself. He had backed Jack right against his bedroom door, had kissed him breathlessly, and he thought, for a moment, that perhaps Bruce wouldn’t leave him that night. Perhaps he would be the monster in his bed, finally.

They had only been intimate that one time. And Jack was craving it, wanted Bruce in every way he could have him. Wanted the muscle and bone beneath skin, wanted to have Bruce open him wide and explore every hidden cavity of his body. A living autopsy, an exploration of adoration. He wanted it all.

But in that moment, he wasn’t sure if he _could_. The fact alone that he had lived up to a name he thought had died many years ago left him feeling already wide open, and now he was afraid what Bruce might find. He didn’t want to close off, didn’t want Bruce to think he was shrinking away, but he needed a moment to himself, a chance to recapture his thoughts. So as Bruce kissed his neck, as he seemed to fit so perfectly against him, he took Bruce’s hand and guided it away from them, settled it on the keypad to his door.

“Put me to bed for the night,” he whispered, “like a good little prince.” Bruce stopped his kisses, glanced up at Jack, whose other hand slide along his jaw, guided him up so he could peck his lips. “But make sure you wake me up with a kiss.”

_Or I might never wake up again_.

*

Bruce hadn’t wanted to overwhelm the Joker- no, no, _Jack_ by asking if he wanted to go to Gotham. He simply wanted to offer- wanted to get him out of the house. Also, Arkham seemed to be itching for another session with him, and Bruce had held off as long as he could. He could only imagine how good it would look for Jack, if he were able to walk into Arkham and walk out, free of chains, of his own free will.

He hoped it would feel liberating. He hoped it was a step in the right direction.

He had wanted Jack in his room that night. He hadn’t wanted to lock him away. He wanted to lose himself with him, learn every bit of this new man, to be able to entangle with him at all hours of the night. He didn’t care if that meant missing patrol, if that meant Alfred openly finding them together- he had wanted it more in that moment then he had wanted to breathe.

Perhaps, he reasoned, as he settled into the cave, in full suit except for his cowl, it was best Jack had denied him that. He hadn’t known what was going through his head, nor had he asked- but he was sure there was a lot. For all his years that he had spent chasing the Joker, learning about him, memorizing every word on every file, he had never had a name. To be given this was to be given a rare gift.

And oh, how Bruce had wanted it.

He was running a search on the computer when Alfred entered, lifting the cowl from where Bruce had left it where he had dressed, and carrying it over with him. “I expected you to already be in the city, sir,” he admitted, handing it to Bruce, who accepted it but did not move to put it on.

“I had something I needed to look up, before I left.”

“A new face?” Alfred asked, glancing at the screen. It was running through a cenuss database of Gotham citizens, set a number of years back, to the present. An odd time frame.

“Sort of,” Bruce admitted, standing up. “He has a name, Alfred.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

Bruce stared up at the screen. “The Joker. He...he has a name. And he told me.” He glanced back, saw that Alfred was staring at him with intrigued, but not unknowing eyes. “And it’s a long shot, but I...I thought I’d run a scan through the Gotham census, starting back when he could have been born. It’s just a first name, but it’s more then I’ve ever had.”

“And who is he, sir?”

Bruce glanced down at the cowl, and for a moment, thought of all the nights he’d spent behind it, chasing after this nameless man, hurting him to a point of lunacy. He thought of the pain he had brought, and he wondered if this was the sickest courtship to have ever been written. Finally, he whispered, “Jack,” as he lifted the cowl, situating it on. “His name is Jack.”

*

Jack laid on his bed in the dark, trying to pull every fiber of himself in, recenter, rethink. He felt unwound now, missed Bruce’s hands, his mouth, the fact that he felt like glue. But he didn’t miss the moment before he had begun to exist again, the breath before he had told Bruce a name he had nearly forgotten over the years.

He hadn’t been Jack since well before his chemical bath. He hadn’t been Jack when he had run with the red hood gang, because he had been simply _no one_. No name, no face, no matter. It had been perfect. No, in fact, there were very few memories he could pull up from the dregs of his skull where Jack existed at all.

The sharp bite of glass to his palm, when he was a child, that had been Jack. The scar throbbed as he thought about it, and he pulled his hand in, stroked his thumb over it. He had been Jack when doctors had first said there was something not _right_ about him, before anyone had dared to listen to him describe how he took the world in. He was Jack the first time he had gone into a medically induced stupor because he had been on such a cocktail of drugs that he was lucky to have ever come out of it.

He was Jack in the beginning, when he hadn’t been sure of who he was. He was the Joker when he had built himself an identity that had best suited him, sculpted from the wet gasoline-soaked ashes the city had left him. Fired in acid and not flame.

To be Jack again felt like he was abandoning everything he had worked to hard to create.

He pushed himself up from the bed, made his way into the bathroom and flicked the light on. The mirror showed him a reflection he had grown used to seeing- unpainted pale skin, jagged scars in white and pink. Freckles, blonde eyelashes, green eyes. Smile lines, juts of cheek bone. Nothing he didn’t know. But once, once it had felt as if this face wouldn’t have been one he knew. So long had he built up a new face, porcelain and ruby and sot.

He traced his fingers along his scars, pushing back blond curls. Staring himself in the eye, feeling the way his scars moved under his fingers, he whispered to himself, “Jack.” They tugged, but not unpleasant. This time, he stared at the way his lips formed the name. “Jack.” Passable. Tolerable. Almost pretty.

Finally, he looked himself in the eyes again, taking his hands away and saying in a voice that shivered slightly at the end, “My name is Jack.”

*

When Bruce returned from patrol that evening, the computer had finished it’s search- of course, yielding an astronomical list of persons named _Jack_. But that was what he had expected. He simply saved the search for another night- as it was now, he wanted nothing more then to crawl into bed for a few hours, to wake up and stare Jack in the face and say his name again.

Truth be told, he didn’t want to even go to his own bed. But he silently walked past Jack’s door, thinking whatever excuse he had for being up at this hour would show a lie. And oh, he didn’t want to let the man see who he was under the cover of blackness.

It was terrifying suddenly, to think, that he knew the other half to this man- and now he was the one with secrets. And while he could love the man Jack, the human under the Joker’s monstrous skin- he had to wonder, when all was said and done- would he be able to love Batman, the constant demon that clung to Bruce’s back?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is so large I really should have split it into two...but I love it as one flowing mess, so here it is in all it's monstrous glory!

When Jack opened his eyes the next morning, he was still alone. The room was silent, still around him. Yawning, he stretched, then rolled himself from bed, making his way towards his front room, and settling in at the window. He had expected Bruce- who seemed so good at appearing before he woke, to be there with him. The fact that he wasn’t made his heart sink.

Unable to situate himself comfortably on the window, he moved to the couch, stretching out and thinking he’d simply sort through his thoughts from the night previously. But before he knew it, his eyelids were closing, heavy-

And the next moment he was being lifted. The arms felt familiar, the grip one he swore he had felt before, other times when consciousness had left him, when his head had been beaten so much his skull seemed to take on a new shape. He leaned his head onto the solid chest, smiled to himself, and could only think his Bat was taking him for another little stay at their cozy cell in Arkham- ah, the one he had always said they should share, if Batsy would simply _stay for a single night_.

But when he inhaled, Bruce’s cologne woke him, and his eyelids fluttered, before he glanced up, caught Bruce’s smile. Jack said nothing, even as he was laid out on his bed, as Bruce crawled in with him, pulling him into his arms, kissing his temple, his cheeks- _oh_ , his scars-

And then his mouth.

For a brief moment, though, he couldn’t truly be sure who was kissing him, or who he even was. It took time, took until he was kissing back, inching even closer to Bruce, having his curls played with. It took until he was fully dragged from sleep for him to realize that it was Bruce, _of course it was Bruce_ , and not the big bad Bat come to take him away.

He nuzzled under Bruce’s chin, kissed his throat, nearly purred as Bruce stroked his spine. “I’ll forgive you for being late _prince charming_ , since that kiss was just oh-so de-lect-able.” He grinned, hooking his leg over Bruce’s and pulling flush up against him. Bruce gave a little startled noise, and Jack giggled. “C’mon sugar, I’m _awake_ now.”

Bruce didn’t pull away, but he didn’t react in the way Jack had wanted- instead he simply held him, smiling, but not returning the playful bumps and touches. “I don’t think there’s time.”

“What do ya mean there isn’t _time_? Brucie baby, don’t tell me I’ve lost my senses and slept half the day away.” Bruce chuckled, kissing his forehead.

“No but, remember that little trip to Gotham I asked you about last night? Well...it was meant for today.” Jack quirked up an eyebrow. “I...ended up a little sidetracked. I’m sorry. But...well, the Arkham officials want to see you- and I dind’t want that doctor coming here anymore. I didn’t want this to seem like it wasn’t a _home_.”

Bruce might have kept talking then, but Jack had heard the word _home_ and shut down. To be quite honest, he wasn’t sure if he had a place that truly did feel like one. Every space he had made his own in the city always felt so temporary. The only thing that was reoccurring was Arkham- but _that_ wasn’t home.

No, home had been more of a person then a place, ever.

He realized Bruce had stopped talking and forced a smile, reaching up to tap his nose with one long finger. “It’s alright sugar. If those docs want to _chat_ , I think I can entertain them. Just, ah, promise not to leave me there. I’m getting rather comfortable _right here_.” He shifted, making a point to press his hips to Bruce’s, to let the man feel exactly what they were missing by this little filed trip, and Bruce stuttered for words, flushed. Oh, he was simply too cute.

*

Jack expected Alfred to be the one driving them- and was rather excited to instead be in the passenger seats of one of Bruce’s cars- _one_ , that simply amused him so much- the man deciding the day would be just the two of them.

“Our first date,” Jack had cooed, as he rolled the window down and let the breeze over take his blond curls. Bruce had laughed, behind a pair of sunglasses, and smiled at him so freely that Jack almost thought it was.

A first date, spent separately at Arkham Asylum and then lost in the bowels of Gotham City. Well, would he ask for more?

When they parked in one of the _visitor’s_ lots at Arkham, Jack was out of the car before Bruce could even open his door. He stretched, inhaling- and oh, it was the scents of his everyday life. The stench of sickness, of mud and mold beneath plaster, of the city just outside the gates. It was everything that had ever assaulted his senses, that he had ever mastered.

“The goal is to be discrete,” Bruce said, walking around and taking Jack’s hand. He squeezed, once, and Jack giggled.

“Dollface, have you taken a look at me? Am I ever, ah, discrete?” Bruce squeezed his hand again.

“Actually, at this moment, you are.” Jack furrowed his brow, but gave Bruce’s words a moment’s pause. He was in jeans and a t-shirt. His hair was completely blond now. His face unpainted. Truthfully, the only thing that stood out about him were the scars on his cheeks- and if he let his curls bounce along his cheeks, his head down, no one need even see them.

He was, for possibly the first time in his acceptable memory, discrete.

Except that he was attached the Bruce Wayne. _That_ wasn’t discrete.

Still, when Bruce began to walk, he followed, keeping their hands together. Up the steps and into the waiting room, the smell of bleach hit him hard. They had just mopped in the next room, he could tell. Within the past ten minutes. Too much bleach in the mix, he could nearly taste it- wanted to gag.

He hadn’t even been gone that long, he felt as if he was going soft.

Bruce was talking to a nurse at the front desk, and Jack chose to look away, to stay as far away as possible- but still hold Bruce’s hand, pulling their arms out. Perhaps he still wasn’t good at discrete. But he didn’t want to look at her, to remember which one she might be. He knew a lot of the staff here- oh, they thought he didn’t. But he committed faces and atrocities to memories- who had said what and when- who had _done_ what and when.

He didn’t want to drag them back up. He had to have a specific face on for the _shrinks_ \- and more then anything, he wanted this to go smoothly for Bruce. Wanted that approving smile he would get after, the squeeze of his hand.

“You ready?” Jack looked back, and Bruce was watching him, pulling at his arm gently. Jack released his hand, somewhat reluctantly, but nodded. The nurse had made her way around the desk, and the two of them followed her to a hallway off offices- a place that lacked the smell of cheap laundry soap and unwashed hair, that still had a nauseating sterileness yes, but was a different piece of the Asylum. Jack knew the doctors liked to separate themselves from the _patients_ as much as possible.

“You’re expected,” she said, glancing at the door and folding her arms. Bruce reached out, squeezed Jack’s shoulder.

“I will be waiting for you when you’re done.” Jack nodded. Oh, he knew Bruce couldn’t go in there, hold his hand and help paint the picture of pure sanity. Oh, no, no, _no_ , that wouldn’t do. Though he liked the idea. Sitting there with a pretty man on his arm, smiling at the condescending doctors that had always told him he was beyond help- that he was the scum of Gotham City. The disconnect on their faces would have been priceless.

Jack took a breath, then let himself into the office, letting the door click behind him. There was a man sitting at a large desk, hands folded, smiling. Older. He knew his face, but vaguely. Mostly from pictures, from files- one of the higher ups who didn’t get his hands dirty.

Quite obviously not the same doctor who had been seeing him at the Manor.

“Well, look at you,” the man said, standing up. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the leather couch, and Jack almost wanted to hop onto it, stretch out, ready to pour out a fake life story. Fake tragedies. A parody of true therapy.

Instead, he settled in neatly, resting his arm on the leather and letting his fingers play along it, getting to know the texture. He chose to focus on that, and not the off-white-yellow color of the lights, not the smell of cigarettes from this man, his cologne- not warm and sweet like Bruce’s, but something harsh. Not that way he stared at the Joker as he himself settled into a chair.

Focus on one thing, and one thing only, and the rest could filter in. And he could cope. The last thing he wanted was a sensory breakdown.

He let the doctor talk, blather on about how it was so _impressive_ to see him looking _healthy_ , to see him walking freely when so recently he had to be treated with maximum security. Oh, lovely indeed.

“Mr. Wayne must have magic up his sleeves,” he joked, and Jack forced a smile- but did not laugh. Instead he stroked his fingers over the leather again. The questions he was fed were routine, he felt- but truthfully, he didn’t feel he was there to answer anything. He was there to be a spectacle for the eye- for the do ctor to take notes on his physical appearance, his quietness. He had never been quiet, except when it truly suited his plans.

Jack was glad that the meeting didn’t last long- but didn’t like that the doctor insisted on walking him out himself. He walked an inch too close, and all the smells Jack had ben able to ignore in the office tried to creep back. He inhaled, forced himself to swallow every little detail, to file it away. He could cope- he had done so for so many years.

It was simply harder now, when he tried to maintain his composure about it.

Once he saw Bruce though, it all felt a bit easier. He wanted to take off running to him, to curl up under one arm, to find that comfort he needed, the praise he desired.

When had he become so dependent?

Before he could move, the doctor was clasping a hand on his shoulder, holding out his other to shake Bruce’s as he reached them, booming about what good work he has done- and has he studied psychology before and not talked about it? His work with the patient was simply stunning.

Jack gritted his teeth, hating the hand gripping his shoulder. He wanted to pry it off- but oh, that would seem aggressive. Yet had hadn’t consented to anyone touching him. Nor had he said anything about wanting to be spoken about like a fucking _lab rat_.

Especially when it was right to his face.

Bruce reached out to him, as if sensing his discomfort, and Jack took his hand, slipping from the doctor’s grasp to Bruce’s side- daring to slide in close, and Bruce closed his arm around him, holding him gently.

“It’s not stunning,” Bruce said with a smile- the kind the Joker knew, the kind that was barbed around the edges- sharp. The kind he himself had mastered. “That someone acts like a human being when treated like one.”

*

Bruce didn’t push Jack to speak. He only kept an arm around him and ushered him to the car. He was glad no one had leaked to the media that this little visit was happening- he didn’t want to put any more stress on Jack. He could feel in the man’s shoulders the tension this had caused.

Once they were inside the car, Jack leaned his head back against the rest, closing his eyes. Bruce watched him, for a moment, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and then reached over, placing his hand on his thigh, squeezing gently. Jack slit his eyes open, glanced at Bruce. “You did a good job,” Bruce offered, rubbing little circles with his thumb into Jack’s thigh through his jeans. “Really. I’m proud of you.”

He hadn’t expected much of a reaction. But the moment he stopped speaking Jack was leaning over, reaching for him, one hand along his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss. For a moment Bruce was caught off guard, but then he was reaching up, holding Jack’s wrist as he kissed him back. He wanted to hold him there forever- be damned if word did get out, as he was sure it would, that he had brought the Joker back into Gotham city to roam free, if the cameras came and caught them like this.

But Jack pulled back then, glancing out the windshield to stare at the shape of the Asylum. Bruce wanted to know what he was thinking, what chain of emotions were running through him- but he didn’t ask. This was a private matter, and he could respect that.

“So since we’re here,” he started, turning his key in the ignition, “I was thinking we could make a day of it. I know it’s early- but maybe we can get some fresh air, some lunch?”

Jack smiled, chuckling to himself as Bruce drove them towards the exit.

“You really _are_ asking me on a date, Brucie.” Bruce was smiling too, couldn’t help it, because he knew it wasn’t a lie.

“So what if I am?” He pulled away from the exit, into traffic, and dared to glance at Jack for a second. “Are you turning me down?”

“Not on your life pretty boy. Not on your life.”

*

Jack liked having Gotham’s wind flicking through his curls from his open window. Liked seeing the city from this protected space. Liked seeing it as someone else. Plus, there was something comforting about being by Bruce’s side- the fact that he had walked with him openly at Arkham. He had held his hand, blatantly. Maybe it was stupid, but Jack felt his belly knotting over it- felt these little butterflies that he swore were a thing of fairy tales. He wasn’t sure if he loved them or loathed them.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but having Bruce park his car near the store riddled, nicknamed _shopping district_ wasn’t it.

“What’re we doing here?” he asked, fumbling with his seat belt as Bruce opened his door.

“Shopping.” And he didn’t elaborate.

Jack didn’t ask further, simply took Bruce’s arm when it was offered to him, and walked with him down the streets. His eyes darted over every face that passed them by- and for the most part, each face seemed to stare over him with no interest. From time to time, someone seemed to notice his scars- but they averted their eyes, didn’t say a word, and chose instead to examine Bruce as well.

If anything, he was the one being recognized.

Jack followed Bruce into a store, where upon entering a casually, but well dressed young man greeted them, actually calling Bruce by name and shaking his hand with a smile. Jack tried to fade to the background, to become simple air against Bruce’s arm, but the man glanced at him-

His smile barely faltered. Jack had to give him credit for that.

“Can I assist you with anything?” he asked, turning back to Bruce. One glance was enough- and Jack didn’t blame him. It was all over Gotham that Bruce was housing him- and even if he looked different, those scars were a dead give away.

“No, but thank you. I think we can handle it on our own.” He nodded, making his way off to another customer, and Bruce guided Jack away.

“Do tell me this is all for, ah, you Brucie.” Bruce smiled.

“Now where would the fun be in that? Besides, you can’t wear the same pair of jeans and one of three shirts everyday.” Jack rolled his eyes- but it was hard to argue.

*

Bruce had taken his female dates shopping before. That was typically an ordeal of expensive shoes, dresses, and the occasional jewelry. With Jack, it seemed rather simple- at first anyway. He hadn’t really seemed like he wanted to even look at anything- until Bruce started pushing. There was something endlessly endearing about watching his nimble fingers sort through racks of clothing, his face far too concentrated, while he hunted for something in purple. Bruce had laughed more then once.

“Try this,” Bruce said, pulling a shirt off the rack, and Jack rolled his eyes.

“That’s the third black thing in _five minutes_ dollface. Get a little color in your life. You’re reminding me of a flighty little ex of mine.” Jack giggled as he took the shirt anyway, and Bruce looked away, trying to hide the slight flush to his cheeks.

It was more from Jack referring to Batman as an _ex_ then any indication that the two were similar. And mostly, it stemmed from the idea that Jack could have been so attached to Bruce in another form that he would consider them a couple- even if Bruce had never been a willing partner. Now, the idea was thrilling. Enchanting and terrifying and something Bruce wanted to seize.

He lost track of the time they spent in the store- and the next one, and the one after that. Finally Jack seemed exhausted, despite the smile on his face, the teasing words- and the slight touches, constant fingers running over Bruce’s arm, along his back as he walked past. Little things that kept Bruce feeling alive under his skin.

Jack seemed just as alive. Whatever tension had built within Arkham seemed to be gone, and he laughed freely- openly, the kind of giggle that was endearing, not horrifying. The kind that would have someone glance over out of a pleasant curiosity. Bruce knew there were plenty of people staring otherwise, making the connection of who he was- but even their fear seemed to ease as Jack bustled about, smiling to himself.

Bruce carried their bags in one hand, his other arm claimed by Jack who hung off him like expensive arm-candy. That idea itself made Bruce laugh, as they exited the last store, Jack pointing out-

“Probably the most _exciting_ arm candy you’ve ever had!”

They were just out the door the moment the words left his mouth, and the moment a shutter went off on a camera- or, to be precise, what felt like a flood of cameras.

Bruce froze, Jack staring out wide eyed at the people that were waiting outside the store. They were calling out to Bruce, snapping more photos. Bruce grit his teeth- he had thought that eventually they would run into the media today, but he had been hoping they’d get lucky. They had been, so far. But of course, someone must have mentioned seeing him with Jack somewhere-

“Just don’t look at them,” he whispered, “We’ll get back to the car and get out of here.” Jack seemed about to listen, ducking his head for a moment so his curls fell into his pretty face, following Bruce as he turned them away from the cameras-

But then he looked directly at them, and, squeezing up against Bruce’s arm, he smiled, he waved. Bruce had to stop for a moment to just appreciate the sudden sweetness that seemed to over take him, the actual genuine smile on his face.

That only made the people gathered yell louder. They were shouting a number of questions, so many that Bruce really couldn’t keep track of what they were asking.

He did hear, a few times, in different voices, _What are you doing in Gotham today_?

“We’re just out for a bit of fresh air,” Bruce said, feeling now that Jack had acknowledged everyone, he had to address them. “We thought it’d be nice to spend the day in the city.”

“Bruce do you feel it’s safe to have the Joker walking Gotham freely?”

“Bruce, why are you keeping him so close?”

“Bruce, what’s it been like having a known sociopath in your own home?”

Bruce fisted his free hand, but felt Jack hug his arm, a reassuring squeeze. Then, smiling again at the crowd, the blond said, “I’ll have you know the doctors have given me _quite_ the clean bill of health.”

The crowd started screaming again, asking if they had been to Arkham recently, and Bruce tried to wave them off. “I’ll release a statement soon,” he offered, “Until then please, we’d like some space. Thank you.” This time when he moved, he didn’t give Jack the chance to hesitate, to speak again. They walked briskly away from the crowd, around the block towards the car. They were barely inside before Bruce was pulling away, wanting to put distance between the cameras and the two of them- as much as he could.

Jack was watching out the window, fingers fiddling in his lap. “You could’ve talked to them sugar.”

“I’d rather not. It’s not really...healthy to have them in your face. There was no need for them to be rude.” Jack shrugged a shoulder.

“I might have _earned_ it a bit. Don’t ah, forget who I am, sweetie. They won’t. Ever.” Bruce gripped the steering wheel, then felt Jack’s hand on his arm, sliding up to his hand. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, then released the wheel with one hand, letting their fingers entangle, feeling the scar along his palm.

No, Bruce was sure they wouldn’t. But he wouldn’t, either. Too many years spent chasing this man, too much turmoil and rushes of blood to his head, too many knotted stomachs and strange rushes of excitement when they were pressed up together.

No one needed to forget who he was. But that didn’t mean that they couldn’t relearn him, as a man, not a monster.

“Don’t tell me we’re heading home already,” Jack whined, leaning back into his seat, “You promised me lunch.”

Bruce had to smile. Yes, he had promised him lunch. And he didn’t want to break a promise.

*

There had been a little commotion during lunch, but not nearly as bad as earlier. Jack didn’t mind. Truth be told, he _loved_ attention- and he wasn’t shaken by the way the media seemed to think him a monster. He was, after all. He didn’t deny that.

Most of all, though, he liked being able to cling to Bruce and see their confused stares over that. Oh, they would print some colorful stories, he was sure.

The manor was peaceful on their return. Bruce spent a great deal of time talking to Alfred about all the fuss- and Jack left them be, choosing instead to curl up on the couch, flipping through the books Alfred had pulled down off an old shelf for him. Reference books, mostly. Old psychology, a book on plants- turthfully, he wanted anything that was reality. He wasn’t one to read fiction. He had enough of it that he created himself.

The afternoon turned to evening, turned to night. Jack grew a bit restless- Bruce had taken a call at such a late hour that Jack had considered taking the phone from his hand and tossing it across the room. He wanted Bruce to pick him up, to throw him over his shoulder and carry him upstairs. To his room- not Jack’s. He wanted to be the monster in his bed- the thing he had been too unsteady to be the other night.

He wanted a lot of things, but what he got was a distracted Bruce, and an Alfred who retired early. So, he took to slipping off in the shadows, to wondering around the Manor himself, enjoying the silence it enfolded around him. There were so many rooms he had never touched, so many shadows to learn, textures to taste, smells to see and hear. A while new world to learn still.

The room he gravitated to though, he was sure it was one he should have ignored. But he pushed the heavy wooden door open, slipping into Thomas Wayne’s study, leaving the door open a crack behind him. He glanced over the room, chose to leave it in the dark, and walked across the room to the window, drawing the dark curtains. Moonlight flooded in, basking everything in that sweet pale gold, angel hair and tulip’s kisses. Colors of dreams, of thoughts right before sleep.

He circled the room, slowly, touching book bindings, the lines of shelves. Anything he could, even if he had touched it all recently. This room was different in the night, when he was alone. There was something he, something of his Bruce, something he wanted to know, to feel. To hold and taste.

He glanced back at the desk, the chair, tried to envision Bruce small, childlike, curled up there. Alone. Afraid. Looking for something that had once been, a father’s reassuring hands, that comforting smile. Things that had been ripped from him in a moment, in a cold alley, in the rain when all they should have worried about was the cold settling in wet bones.

He wanted Bruce’s tragedy. He wanted his aches, the broken bones of youth.

He wondered if he had slept the night in that chair. Did it smell like his father? Did the leather remind him of his palms? Faded, worn, perfect in years of imperfection? Or had he stayed in that haze of slumber and alertness, mind distorting every shadow. Every flicker of movement a ghost, a demon, a possession of the night that wanted to sink tendrils into his mind, to show him a madness born only of night.

He walked over to the chair, pushed it back slightly, ran his fingers along it. He could almost smell Bruce, not his cologne, but childhood soap, sugar- like candy, the mix of favorite pajamas worn when the nights were too rough and his neglected sheets. He wanted to pull his ghost from the chair, to hold him, to have the child whisper to him every shape he had seen, every fear born in that cold dark. He wanted to swallow it all, so that he could _know_.

For the first time in his life, he wanted to know someone. A real someone- not a man in a mask who could have been everyone and no one. No, he knew Bruce, he had the outline of his life- but he wanted the details. Every last fear, every hope- every let down and every triumph. He wanted it, would have it in any way it would be given.

He heard the door creaking- and glanced back, saw his silhouette there. Jack didn’t move, not even as Bruce stepped into the room, staring at him with those dark eyes. Pitless, as if he himself was endless.

He could have said any number of words- anything that chastised Jack for being in this space, this little locked sliver of time. Instead he simply filled the space next to him, running a hand along the chair. _Silent_.

“Alfred told me he used to find you here,” Jack whispered.

“Did he now?” A nod.

“You’d sleep right in this chair. What was it to you, Bruce? Was it daddy coming back in the shadows to chase the demons away?” His voice had been calm while he spoke, and Bruce turned to stare at him. Jack swallowed. “What did you see, in this room?”

“Horrors.” Bruce’s hand slid down along the chair, grazed over Jack’s before pulling away. Jack leaned back against the desk, gripping it until his knuckles went white.

“Show them to me.” Bruce gazed past him, at the bookshelves, the paintings along the wall- each shadow an old friend, a terrifying member of his elusive family. Noting had changed, in all these years- and Jack could tell, from his silence, from the tight line of his lips.

“I saw death,” he finally whispered, turning, falling back carefully into the chair. “Death in the eyes of monsters I had no name for, no shape for.” He tore his eyes away from the shadows, stared so far into Jack that his insides felt like Bruce was parting them, caressing his slick organ, exploring the cavities between them. “You know them.”

And he did. Jack knew what they were. The same and different for each, those shadows that came and night, reeked of death and plague and true terror. Shadows that became everything you loathed, everything you feared. Shadows that knew you better then you knew yourself.

“Did they ever leave?” He watched Bruce swallow, watched him inhale.

“No.” He held Jack’s stare, reaching one hand for him, grasping his arm. “No. They just found a new place to haunt.” He pulled Jack to him, the blond allowing it, allowing himself to be guided onto Bruce’s lap, straddling him and reaching up to stroke along his face. One of Bruce’s hands had found the curve of his back, tracing it.

“Where?” Jack knew the answer. He didn’t need Bruce to tell him- but oh, he wanted it. Wanted to hear him admit it.

“Inside my head.”

Jack breathed in that moment, found Bruce’s mouth and kissed him with a sweetness that had Bruce clutching at his back. He felt a kinship them, a tie to Bruce that hadn’t been born of any kindness the man had showed him, any intrigue- it was born of fear, of those shadows they both witnessed, allowed to take up residence in their skull. It was born of a shared madness, a promise for just the two of them.

Jack kissed Bruce until they were breathless, made his way along his jaw, up along his eyelids. His hand ran back through his dark hair, tugging gently, Bruce giving him the small groan he needed. “Are the monsters still under your bed, Brucie? Are they anywhere _but inside your head_?”

He kissed his jaw again, nipped at skin, as Bruce dug blunt fingernails into his back through his shirt.

“They can be,” he offered, “if I invite them.” Jack pulled back, studying him in the moonlight, the high contrast of pale skin to sudden shadow, the black eyes, dark as-

No. He wouldn’t allow the Bat here, in this moment. He wasn’t allowed to take this from him, this moment of knowing, of learning. Bruce was his in this moment, and he would not share.

“Then invite me.” Jack held that dark gaze for a moment, and then Bruce was kissing _him_ , grasping at him frantically, clawing, trying to pull him apart, swallow him whole. Jack let it happen, until he was dizzy with it, breathless, excited, and Bruce was pushing him, guiding him off the chair, grabbing his wrist and nearly dragging him from the room. Jack followed, as if he would have done anything else, through the shadows in the hall, to Bruce’s dark room. He pushed Bruce against a wall the moment they were through the door, kissing him again, fingers tugging on the buttons of his shirt. Motions he had known so well with others felt foreign, and he fumbled, shaking with each button he managed to undo. Bruce’s hands were at his waist, pushing his shirt up, exposing skin, stroking a jagged scar along his side from a Batarang that had stuck in deep.

He had managed half the buttons when Bruce pushed him away, gripped the edges of his t-shirt and guided over Jack’s head, tossing it away and then guiding him across the room, to the bed. Jack let him push him down on it, crawl over him and kiss his throat- which he bared, willingly, tipping his head back as Bruce’s teeth grazed sensitive flesh. His hands worked between them, on the button of his jeans, even as his kissed found Jack’s collar bone- the nasty scar from a break he had gotten once, a fall from a clumsy leap, a time when the pain had knocked him near-unconscious-

And Batman had been the one to carry him to safety.

Bruce traced it with his tongue, lapped the story up from his pores, as he tugged Jack’s jeans off his hips. Jack raised them slightly, sighed as Bruce’s mouth traveled further, until his lips moved over one pale pink nipple, followed by his tongue- then Jack was gasping.

He tried to grab at Bruce, wanted to work on the buttons of his shirt again, but he couldn’t reach those. All he could do was whimper as Bruce tormented one sensitive bud, before moving to the other, chuckling around it as Jack squirmed.

“Sensitive?” he whispered, his tongue flicking out. Jack swallowed.

“Pent up.” The smile Jack gave him was genuine and needy, and Bruce pushed himself up, straddling him as he worked open the last few buttons of his shirt. Jack watched him pull it from his shoulders as if an angel was pulling the skin from his wings, as if he was seeing every thought in bone inside Bruce. He tried to sit up, squirming beneath Bruce, hands running over the muscles of his stomach, up his chest, grabbing one strong shoulder. Bruce hunched down to kiss him again, and they fell to the mattress, rolling, a moment Jack pushing Bruce down, then Bruce flipping them, trapping the blond. It was endless, taking breath from both, until Jack was pushed back up against the pillows, arching as Bruce tugged his jeans fully off his hips, along his legs, throwing them off the bed.

He grabbed the waistband of his underwear, gave Jack not a moment to adjust to the air along his legs as they were pulled away too, leaving him naked under him. Bruce kissed him again- oh, so unable to keep away from those scarred lips, and Jack had no desire for him to ever deny himself that- his hand pressing between them, palm running over Jack’s cock before he grasped at the base, stroking him. The blond moaned, pushing his hips up with Bruce’s hand, feeling like he could crawl out of his skin.

Bruce was smirking, leaving each rock of Jack’s hips, each tremble. Jack tried to sit up, to kiss him even as Bruce had pulled away, and settled for his neck, his hands roaming his sides as Bruce continued his sweetly-assaulting rhythm, bringing Jack horribly close to the edge already.

Finally those pale hands reached down, took Bruce by his wrist and guided him away. Bruce leaned back, steady on his knees, as Jack squirmed, naked and pale and a map of scars and bones and wonder, freeing himself from under him so he would be on his hands and knees. Carefully, he wran his hands along Bruce’s thighs, up, working the button and zipper of his hands, placing his mouth against his belly and kissed gently. He couldn’t see his own hands moving as he opened Bruce’s hands, as one hand worked inside his underwear, freeing his cock. Bruce inhaled sharply, held his breath as Jack’s mouth traveled lower, along his navel- lower still, until he felt them on the base of his cock.

Jack dipped down, let his tongue run along his length, to the head, where he lapped gently- finally hear Bruce exhale. He smiled against him, a brief brush of lips, and then opened his mouth, slowly taking him in as far as he could. Bruce groaned, dark eyes wide, watching as Jack’s blond curls bobbed slowly, moving towards his body, back away- a slow rhythm that had his legs quivering, a warm heat that had him wanting more.

He reached down, stroking his hair, and Jack sighed around him, his hand clutching at Bruce’s thigh, steadying himself. He could barely breathe, but he didn’t _want_ to- wanted Bruce to breathe for him. Wanted him to suck in the shadows from the room, to share them with Jack in any way his body allowed.

Bruce had to fight to keep his hips from rocking too hard, to keep from thrusting into Jack’s mouth. He didn’t want to hurt him, but he was simply too sublime, some new level of sweetness, that he had to try and push him away- and when Jack fought, all he could do was whine, “ _I don’t want to come yet_.”

That stopped him. Jack pulled away, only to have Bruce turn him, flip him, press him belly down onto the bed. He maneuvered over him, and Jack heard the drawer of his night stand opening, felt Bruce’s hard cock drag across his thigh, slick with his saliva, leaving a wet smear to cool in the air, goosebumps rising along his thighs.

When Bruce was back, straddling one thigh, his fingers moving along the cleft of Jack’s ass, the blond raised his hips, welcomed the sweet press of his slick fingers against his hole. Bruce was slow, eased one in first- and Jack let his breath rush out, the long missed feeling of being opened enough to make him shiver once.

He hadn’t expected Bruce to know how to do this to him, to work him slowly, the single finger joined by a second only after slow thrusts, the two curling enough that Jack gasped, raised his hips more, pushed back. Wanted Bruce deeper, wanted more of him, all of him. Every bit of his bone and blood to find a way under his skin.

When Bruce added a third, Jack’s thighs began to quiver. He whimpered, felt Bruce’s other hand on the small of his back, stroking, tracing over a sprinkling of freckles he found in the dark of the room. Jacks hands fisted in the sheets, and he was calling back that he needed more, needed all of it, everything, and-

_Bruce please_.

That was the moment those fingers left his body, giving him a few short seconds of an ache, an emptiness- and then Bruce was pulling him up, fully onto his hands and knees, one hand grabbing a handful of flesh while the other steadied his own cock, the slick head pressing against Jack for one brief moment of hesitation.

He was going to push his hips back, to beg for Bruce, to give him not a chance to change his mind.

Before he could, Bruce was pushing inside him. Jack gasped, his head snapping back, Bruce groaning low, letting Jack’s tight body pull him in. It felt like eternities until they were flush together- and Bruce didn’t want to move. Not yet. Wanted to memorize the way Jack’s body fit around him so perfectly, and Jack- he wanted to know forever what it felt like to be _full_.

When Bruce did move, it was a slow draw back of his hips, before another thrust inside Jack had the blond giving a sharp cry, clutching at the bed beneath him, spreading his thighs more, his back a curve of spine, a map of scars, so many things Bruce needed to learn, to see.

He held Jack’s hips as he thrust, as he tried to keep from driving into him so hard that the man would scream. He wanted to, needed to- but there was a tenderness in this moment, something he didn’t want to spoil. Jack let his head fall down, gasping, his cock bumping his belly with each thrust, his body burning beneath his skin.

He could have come undone with that first thrust, he was sure. But Jack wanted this to go on forever, to have Bruce fuck him into delirium, into a whole new reality where they merged, where the shadows in his lover’s head became his own, took shape of ghosts of a shared past, of an interchangeable future.

Bruce leaned over him, slipped an arm around his waist and pulled him up as he straightened, his thrusts slowing as Jack was pulled up fully onto his knees. His back pressed against Bruce’s chest, who kept his arm locked around him as they rocked. Jack behind him, grabbing at Bruce’s thigh as he craned his neck, looking up, managed to get Bruce’s mouth on his own.

It was over before it began, Jack could feel it building in him. He didn’t fight it, now then, not with Bruce’s mouth on his, that arm around his waist, fingers splayed on his belly. Bruce was hitting every nerve inside his body, driving him to a new sort of high he had never experienced with anyone else, a sensory overload that seemed so precise that all he felt were those sharp pangs of pure white pleasure, all he saw was the white static along the lines of his vision.

“Please,” he whispered, as Bruce’s fingers traced a scar, that jagged Batarang wound, years old- from the beginning of his courtship with Gotham’s shadows. His own death ghost. “Bruce, I-“

Bruce nuzzled his curls, a breathy _I know_ , and Jack closed his eyes, let his head fall back to ride out the high to its crescendo, until he was calling out into the dark as his body clenched Bruce, a spasm of muscle, his orgasm searing through his veins. Behind his eyelids was only black as he felt his belly grow slick, wet and warm without a single touch to his cock- and Bruce, murmuring _yes_ into his curls, gripping him tightly for the last few shaky thrusts- and then he was still, groaning, shuddering as he came inside him, gave him his nightmares in the most intimate way possible.

Jack wasn’t sure when he opened his eyes, when the shadows behind his eyelids became the shadows on the ceiling. All he knew was when Bruce pulled out of his body he missed him instantly, dearly, hated that feeling emptiness that came. But he welcome Bruce guiding him gently down into the sheets, the way he pulled him into his arms, let him curl up into his chest. He kissed Jack’s curls, his temple, the bridge of his nose. He kissed one cheek bone, one curve of his scar, a few stray freckles- and finally his mouth, his lips trembling.

In fact, all of Bruce was trembling.

Or was it Jack?

Neither could tell, but it didn’t seem to matter. In that brief moment, they were one singular person, with one set of dreams, and one set of shared shadows, curling up from the edges of the room to act as not their fear- but their comfort. A shared madness for two tired souls who, for once in their lives, were drifting into sleep in the presence of someone who understood the spaces in their silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need an endless fic of Bruce taking the Joker shopping. Maybe someday I'll write it.


	11. Chapter 11

Bruce slept the sort of sleep the dead enjoy, the dreamless slumber that comes with minds well spent beyond their capacity- minds that had emptied themselves and accepted the shadows around them as the blankets they are. When he finally did stir, the body pressed flush to his, legs entangled, nestled closer, sighing.

He opened his eyes, saw Jack’s curls first, lit by the morning sun as it had settled high in the sky. Jack’s arm around him tightened, his mouth moving against Bruce’s skin, despite a lack of sound. If he was waking, he was losing that battle.

Bruce let his hand splay along the man’s back, enjoying the silence that had settled over the night, that he did not want to shatter. Simply Jack’s breathing and his own. Nothing more, nothing less.

He could have taken the time to think about the line he had crossed that night. He could have chastised himself, having taken this a step too far, a step too fast- but he didn’t _want_ to. Bruce felt alive in that moment with this perfectly imperfect man, felt open and raw so _known_. To think, it would be the Joker that could see the shadows of his childhood and understand them-

No, not the Joker. _Jack_. Just a man, not a monster-

But would the two ever be truly separate?

“You think too loud.” Jack’s voice was sleepy, slow, as he shifted, tilting his head back to glance at Bruce. He couldn’t help but smile at the blond.

“Good morning.”

“Is it? I feel like I could sleep for, ah, another _century_.” He pressed his face to Bruce’s chest, trying to shut the light out. Bruce chuckled, stroking his hand up along his spine.

“Did I wear you out?” His voice was smug, and Jack started giggling, his body vibrating with it. It only made Bruce’s smile grow.

“Darlin’,” he whispered, looking back up, “If you wanna _wear me out_ you best be planning to spend your whole morning in this bed.”

He continued to giggle, until Bruce was rolling him over, onto his back, sliding right in between his thighs and pressing in against him. Bruce didn’t hide that the idea was thrilling, and Jack gasped, Bruce hunching over him and kissing him, biting at his lower lip.

“Don’t tempt me,” he breathed, and Jack let his legs curl around Bruce’s thighs.

“Oh sugar,” he whispered, “Don’t you know I’m just the queen of _temptation_?”

*

When Jack finally left Bruce’s room, in just his underwear, his clothes left thrown on the floor, he was starving, would have killed for a shower, and ached in what seemed like a thousand and one places.

He was no more then a few steps down the hallway when he caught Alfred’s gaze, as the man was making his way towards Bruce’s room. Jack tried to straighten up, felt heat rushing to his cheeks- like he was caught on a very _exposed_ walk of shame.

“Uhm, morning,” Jack offered, smiling nervously, brushing a hand back through his messy curls. Alfred glanced over him, and his stoic expression turned soft, and then- then he was _laughing_. Jack’s eyes widened, but he couldn’t move as Alfred walked over, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“You look a child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.” Jack grinned.

“Why does he get to be the cookies? Maybe _I_ want to be a cookie.” Alfred continued to chuckle, and Jack just kept grinning. “He’s in the shower,” he finally said, “if you’re looking for him.”

“I am indeed, thank you.” Alfred pulled his hand back, continuing down the hallway, and Jack exhaled. He hadn’t expected the man to be, well...so enjoyable over the whole ordeal? There was no way the man wasn’t connecting the dots- Jack knew Alfred wasn’t _dumb_. If anything, he was intriguing, charming.

Truly, he liked him.

He got to his room, and without thinking pushed on the door. It gave and he stepped inside, walking to the bathroom and turning the shower on. It didn’t dawn on him until he was working shampoo through his hair that the door hadn’t been locked.

It locked automatically, as far as he was aware. And while Bruce had given him freedom to roam the Manor even when he wasn’t home, he had never said anything about the locks on his doors. Jack stood there for a moment, under the water, not entirely sure what to make of it.

Was it all gone, then? Was he honestly now just a guest, and not some sort of hybrid patient?

*

“You could have said something,” Bruce said to Alfred as he picked up his cup of coffee, “Instead of just _waiting_ for me to get out of the shower.” They were in the kitchen now, Alfred still amused over the way Bruce had nearly jumped out of his skin and towel when he found him in his bedroom.

“And ruin the fun Master Bruce? Surely not.” Bruce rolled his eyes, making his way towards the small room with the glass doors, and settling at the table. He wanted to browse the news before Jack came down and surely distracted him- he had meant originally to go on Patrol last night, and wanted to make sure he hadn’t missed anything-

He stopped mid sip of his coffee when he realized the first headlining story- it seemed everywhere- was his face. Him with Jack clinging to his arm, various shots of the two trying to escape from their shopping trip to the car. Various states of Jack looking down like Bruce had advised, of him looking at the crowd. Even a few of them during their lunch- Bruce had tried to get them as secluded as possible, away from windows, but it seemed someone had still managed a few shots.

He gritted his teeth, setting the tablet down and sliding it across the table, towards where Alfred was standing. “Take a look at this.”

Alfred pulled a chair out, settling down and picking up the tablet, casually scrolling through one story. Bruce downed his coffee as Alfred read, getting up to get a second cup. He was sure he was going to need the whole pot- possibly another. When he returned, Alfred had his hands folded, watching Bruce as he sat down. Bruce could tell he had something to say.

“What?”

“What did you expect them to say, Master Bruce?” Bruce stared at him, and Alfred cleared his throat. “You can not truly believe the media wouldn’t speculate, considering how...close you two seem to be.” Bruce set his coffee mug down, and Alfred folded his hands. “And do not try to deny it, sir. I’m not blind. And even if I _were_ blind, you two made it rather _obvious_ this morning what is happening.”

“It’s not that,” Bruce finally said, waving his hand, “I don’t give a shit what they speculate about the two of us. It’s the language they use to talk about _him_. The things they call him.” He took the tablet back, almost wanting to break it over his knee. “They don’t talk about him like he’s human.”

“To be fair, Master Bruce, neither did you.” Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he saw Jack walking through the doorway from the kitchen, fingers working through his damp curls. The blond walked over, settling down in a chair opposite Alfred, next to Bruce, and glanced between them.

“What?” Neither spoke, and he frowned. “What did I miss?” Alfred cleared his throat, and Bruce sighed, pushing the tablet towards him.

“Looks like we’re the top story today.” Jack took the tablet, flicking through stories, looking almost bored. Finally he started to chuckle, rolling his eyes and pushing it back.

“Does it bother you, dollface?” he asked, and Bruce frowned.

“Talking about us? No. How they talk about you- that bothers me.” Jack shrugged a shoulder, looking bored by the whole conversation.

“Like I said Brucie, they’re not lying. They’re not going to forget who I am- no matter how boring I might look and act.” He tapped his fingers on the table, then, with a little smile, “So, are you leaving me alone with good ‘ole Jeeves today, or are you spending the day with your princess?”

*

Bruce did leave him, even if the idea of staying home all day was tempting. Very tempting. But he felt he needed the distance, needed to breathe for a moment, to sort through these things.

He didn’t understand how Jack could be so calm over the whole ordeal. How was he not upset over the invasion of privacy, the way he was spoken of? They acted like Bruce was bedding down with a rabid dog, and not a man.

It wasn’t much better at the office. The glances he had been getting turned into full-blown stares- as if everyone forgot who he was, that if he wanted, he’d have all their jobs in a heartbeat. And if a single person spoke to him on the issue in even the slightest incorrect tone, he would.

He rarely felt this sort of rage, outside of the cowl. Sitting alone in his office, trying to focus on the emails on his laptop, he could barely see. It felt like it was seething in him, something short of hate but well beyond discomfort- not enough to break him, not the same rage that coursed through him when he put on the mask and _gave in_ , but something born of it, that would grow into it.

He didn’t think it would help Jack’s recovery, if no one else could look past what he was.

Somewhere inside Bruce, he knew this was true- but there was more. More he wanted to drown- that perhaps he was looking past his past _too easily_. After all, countless lives at been lost at his hands- Gotham had bled dry to his singing laughter. Bruce himself has endless scars to speak of it-

But so did Jack. Bruce recognized them, the jagged pull a Batarang left in skin. He even could remember the moments some of those scars were born. Each one felt like a promise- and perhaps it was finally time to keep them.

*

Jack enjoyed most of his afternoon with Alfred, acting as if he was helping him, when really he was more likely to knock over the very book stack the man had just dusted, or distract him long enough that he forgot where he had left off on a task. Finally Alfred chased him off- but with a healthy smile, and Jack decided he _definitely_ liked him.

Jack didn’t particularly want to go to his room, and instead slipped outside, alone. He took a few steps into the grass, inhaled the smells of fresh air, blooming flowers, let it all filter into his brain. Far easier this time around. Then, hands in his pockets, he walked, slowly, casually, along the length of the trees, until the house was in the distance, fading, fading-

Part of him wanted to walk all the way to Gotham. To see the way the world changed around them. He had seen it the previous day- but there had been so many distractions, so much to take in- and he had slipped so many glances at Bruce he felt he had missed so much.

But the city- it held so many things that felt far away, distant, long gone almost. It held a man in a mask, a painted man, a painted woman- himself and Harley and the Bat and a number of other _friends_ who wouldn’t even recognize him. Gotham city was another world, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to go back without Bruce by his side- even if he knew, were he to go, his destination would be Wayne Enterprises.

But Bruce served as something, a symbol, something to strive for. A reminder that whatever he was becoming, there was a reward. After all, would Bruce fall so easily if Jack were to put his makeup back on and blow up a bus simply because _he could_? Because it upset order? Would Bruce love him with blood on his hands- would he let that blood smear along every inch of his own skin?

Jack didn’t think so. And, for the first time in his life, he felt _alright_ with that. He didn’t need it, if he had this instead. It was a fair trade- Bruce for the sweet chaos, the smell of gasoline, the serenade of screams. Gotham City could have it all- but they had to hand over Prince Charming in return.

He had made his way back to the house by now, going around the side, to the front, along the large front steps. He chose to settle down on them, to sit under the warm sun and simply gaze out at the paved circle around the front of the property- the spot where the Arkham van had first parked, with him as it’s precious cargo. When he had hatched a plan- or, perfected it, upon seeing Bruce Wayne standing there in all his glory- to escape. To wind Bruce so tightly around his finger that he didn’t breathe without wondering if it was what _The Joker_ wanted.

Jack burned those plans. Page by mental page, with each touch, each glance. Every kiss- and last night, he knew the final fragments had been thrown out. He had nothing of it left- and he liked it that way.

He leaned back, letting his head fall back, to the side, glancing along the perfectly kept shrubs- and noticing, then, the smallest shape. Out of place, not that dark green- white, was it? It seemed cast in shadow, tossed away. Leaning over, Jack stretched out along the steps, onto his belly, trying to glance over where the large, heavy steps ended, dropped off to the ground. He slipped his arm down, along the shrub, the small branches scratching along his arm. It was stuck half way down, a small piece of folded paper that Jack managed to snatch between his fingers.

He pulled back, staying on his belly, unfolding it- and recognizing the hand writing the moment it was half open.

_If you’re reading this Puddin’, I know you’re just as smart as ever. Get yourself to the city, and I’ll keep you safe. If you need a hand, I’ve got a pretty little connection at Arkham. She’s been poking around inside that head of yours._

_Kisses!_

He stared for a moment, before exhaling her name. _Harley_. How long had this been here? How did it get here? _How did she ever think he would find it_?

He knew though that she would have been _sure_ he’d find it. If there was anyone rivaling the Bat in knowledge about him, it was her-

And now, possibly Bruce.

He crumpled the note up, but didn’t want to toss it away. Instead he stuffed it into his pockets, unsure what to do with it. It was a promise, a silent one, that he had a ticket out. All he needed to do was get word to her- and how hard would it be to get another visit to Arkham? No, not hard at all, he was sure. Everyone was dying to get the chance to pick at his brain- especially now since he wore a mask of _sanity_ \- or their version of it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, decided everything was too bright. She had an in, but who, how did they-

Ah, _that_ was why he hadn’t known her face, why she had seemed rather peculiar. That faceless doctor who had visited him, could she be Harley’s connection? She certainly hadn’t been a face Jack knew, which had been strange, nor had she conversed with him exactly how he had expected.

In which case, Harley had intimate details of exactly where he was in the Manor, of his presented state of mind in those first few days. He wasn’t sure he cared for that. She was something special, but to give her that little peak inside him- well, he didn’t want to give it to anyone.

_Except Bruce_.

Jack pushed himself up with a huff, brushing himself off and slipping back inside. He went straight to his room, still found the door blissfully unlocked, and headed for the heavy book he had left on the desk. Plucking the note from his pocket, he smooth it out and shoved it in the middle of the book, taking the old medical desk and shoving it into one of the drawers of the desk. Out of sight, out of mind.

Then he made his way towards his bed, thinking he might enjoy a few moments of sleep before Bruce came home again.

*

Bruce had almost hoped to find Jack _waiting_ for him when he returned home, to have him throw the door open and kiss Bruce before he was even inside. Instead, he found a silent, sleeping Manor. Alfred had left him a note that he had gone out to do some shopping, and Jack-

Jack was nowhere in sight.

Bruce made his way upstairs, slipping into the blond’s room- and for a moment, when he wasn’t by the window, Bruce wondered if he had slipped away entirely. Had he trusted too much, too quickly? Or, worse-

Was Jack even real. Had he crafted up this man, this strange sort of imperfection to give him everything he needed from a man he could never have? Was Jack just a fabrication of the Joker so that Bruce could find some peace of mind?

He tried to shut everything down- and did, effectively, when he found Jack sprawled out in bed, sound asleep. The moment he caught a glimpse of him, he felt ridiculous.

Of course Jack hadn’t run off. How could he even think that? How could he be so quick to judge him by the monster he was.

Maybe Bruce had a lot of learning still ahead of him.

Quietly, he made his way over to the bed, stripping off his jacket and leaving it tossed at the foot of the large mattress. He loosened his tie slightly, climbing onto the bed and stretching out in front of Jack, reaching out to stroke a few blond curls off his cheek. He shifted, eyes opening to stare at Bruce for a moment before he smiled. “Back from the war my little _knight_?” For a brief moment, Bruce felt his blood go cold- but Jack was stretching out, curling up into him, the comment gone- not a jab at Bruce’s masked identity, simply his mannerisms.

Jack’s fingers moved to Bruce’s tie, slowly working on the knot. “Miss me while I was gone?”

“Oh, _always_ pretty boy.” Successfully having untied it, Jack pulled it away, tossing it behind him and turning now to the buttons by Bruce’s neck. “Although Alfie is quite the company. Where ever did you find him?”

“I feel more as if he found me.” Bruce inhaled as Jack popped the second button down on his shirt, enjoying the comfort. “He’s been here as long as I can remember.”

“Then you’re lucky,” Jack mused, freeing another button, “to have such a little knit family.” He leaned in, kissed Bruce’s throat as his fingers continued to work on the shirt. It was one of the strangest things anyone had ever said to him, regarding family. That he was _lucky_. The world would have disagreed, considering what had happened to his parents. And he knew Jack knew of that- the blond knew far more about everyone then he let on. A life in Gotham’s underbelly led to that.

And still he chose the word _lucky_. But perhaps to him, Bruce really was. Did he have anyone? Had he ever? Bruce had no idea what lurked in this man’s past years, what sort of family had once existed, had dissipated. If one had ever been there at all.

All the family he had was Harley, and Bruce knew how that was going. The two had been one of the most terrifying and in-sync yet dysfunctional pairings he’d ever seen. They were the thing of nightmares- and yet they were each other’s undoing. And now, he didn’t even have her. Jack truly had no one.

Bruce could see how he could view him as lucky then- Alfred wasn’t just _someone_ , but one of the best support nets Bruce could have ever dreamed of.

Jack had his shirt entirely open now, his mouth running down along Bruce’s chest, his navel. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back, enjoying the feel as his fingertips wisped over curves of muscle, tight skin. He felt Jack stroke a scar along his lower abdomen, and heard him whisper, “How did you get something nasty like this?”

Bruce swallowed. He realized that, until this point, Jack had never seen or noticed his scars. And while Jack’s body boasted far more then he did, he had his own ugly little collection. “I’ve always been clumsy,” he offered, “I’ve had a number of injuries through out the years.”

Jack pressed his mouth to it- sucked on the raised skin and Bruce whined- couldn’t help it, it was sudden, pressure on sensitive skin but not _unpleasant_. His hands had moved to Bruce’s belt, working it open, then his pants. Bruce could barely think as it all happened- he had had lovers touch his scars, question him- but no one had ever touched like _that_. They had always been gentle, as if afraid the skin would reopen.

It almost seemed Jack wanted it to.

There were teeth then, on the skin just below it, as Jack reached one hand past the waistband of his underwear, pulling his cock free. He shoved Bruce so his hips rolled, so he was on his back, and then his mouth was around the head of his cock, sucking gently, causing Bruce’s breath to rush out of him. He pushed up towards those lips, until his half erect cock seemed to entirely fit, nestled in that sweetly scarred mouth, and Jack didn’t stop him, seemed to want it more then Bruce even did.

This hadn’t been what he had expected to come home to.

Bruce tipped his head back, eyes closed, letting Jack move as he saw fit, one hand sprawled along his abdomen, feeling muscle and skin, feeling smaller scars that Bruce had forgotten over the years. He didn’t notice- all he knew was Jack’s mouth was far better then it ever should have been, the way his scars felt along his cheeks when the head of Bruce’s cock brushed one, the little sounds he made as if _he_ was the one being brought up to that orgasmic high.

Bruce didn’t last long, felt like it was over in the blink of an eye, groaning as his hips rose, as his seed spilled along Jack’s tongue, down his throat. Jack kept him inside through it, and when he did release him, when Bruce managed to push himself up and gaze down at him, he saw that pretty white throat working as he swallowed, his tongue running along his lips, catching every pearly smudge that had somehow escaped.

He could have gone another round in that very moment, from that sight alone.

*

There was something about dinner with Bruce and Alfred that made Jack feel calm. There was something about the strange easiness of it all that made him feel tight in his belly, in his throat. Happy, and yet- _not_.

He had told Bruce he was _lucky_ to have this family, and he did not question his own words. To him, Bruce was very lucky. Despite what had happened to Bruce’s parents, what he himself had been through, he still had someone- a someone that Jack grew more and more fond of with each passing day. And while it wasn’t ideal to have lost so much at such a young age- Bruce had something now. Something tangible.

Jack didn’t. He could scarcely remember when family was _family_. When it had been something to actually enjoy, that didn’t make his stomach sick. And what had he built himself?

Harley. She was there, in his mind, like a ghost whose sharp nails loved to find the crevices within his brain. She clung and she grinned but she was _his_ , what he had chosen to replace everything he had never had to lose. She was, until now, the only one to truly know a thing about him, to glance beyond the scars and the painful grins.

In a way, he missed her. Her company hadn’t always been grating- there had been soothing moments, times when he could enjoy silence around them. When he could simply enjoy her very existence. But there was nothing he could do about this, not now. Not where he was. To go back to Harley was to forsake everything he had here, everything he was working so hard for. He knew that- and he was sure that, without him, she was prospering in ways he could never know.

He would have to see what mischief she had gotten into recently. At the very least, he could read about it. But would it make him miss it?

And then there was the Bat. His sweet cryptic Knight with those hard eyes and harder fists. Oh, Bats had been family alright, Bats had been one of a kind, had been his other half- the only one to understand him without truly realizing it. Oh, his big bad Bat had been everything.

And yet- he felt so far removed from him. From all of it.

Now instead he had this man who was a stranger, a figure swimming in a sea of endless faces not so long ago. But Bruce felt more like family then he could have ever dreamed. And Alfred- there was something so charming about his company that Jack found he looked forward to it, rather liked his smile and his dry sarcasm.

He could only wonder, if there was a place for him here.

*

Jack followed Bruce back to his bedroom when they finally retired- and Bruce felt an odd giddiness settle over him as they tumbled down to the sheets, as Jack pawed at his clothing and giggled into his mouth as he kissed him. There was a happiness there that he had not anticipated, a freeness that was refreshing.

Bruce would have thought he was satiated from Jack’s attention earlier, but when his mouth found him again Bruce felt like a _teenager_ , with nothing except Jack and getting between his legs on his mind. And when Jack finally climbed on top of him, baring all his pale skin, all his raised scars, every curve of bone and muscles, Bruce felt like he was diving into the acid bath Jack himself had taken years ago. Like something was crawling up under his skin and nesting there, tasting blood and wanting more, more, _more_.

He held Jack’s hips, traced his thumbs in little reassuring circles as he watched him come undone, go from smiling to whining to almost sobbing, hypnotized by the way his chest rose and fell with each labored breath, the outline of ribs under muscle and skin. He tried to reach for him, to touch him, to bring him off the sweet misery of neglect, but Jack batted his hands away, forced them to stay on his hips.

_No, no he wanted it to end with nothing but Bruce inside him_.

And Bruce couldn’t fight him, not those eyes, those scarred lips, nothing. He held him and nearly lost himself countless times because Jack felt _too good_ , felt like he was going to be pinned down beneath him for the entire night- for the rest of his life.

When Jack came, it was crying Bruce’s name, not _pretty boy_ or any other taunting pet name, but a broken mantra of _Bruce Bruce Bruce_ that tumbled from lips broken so many times, that caught in the air with his breath. And Bruce could have gone without his own release after seeing the way Jack leaned back, bared every scar, every bone, the way his voice broke, the trails of tears along his broken cheeks, his neck.

Tears Bruce lapped up when Jack finally curled up in his arms, tears that tasted like the lost salt of years that hadn’t seen the light, of dreams trodden down in damp alleyways. He tasted like sorrow and a sweetness all his own, like someone broken who had stitched up their own wounds and become infused with the anger, the sadness of ever having to do such a thing.

Bruce held him, cradled Jack until the blond was dozing, giving into the late hour. And it _was_ late, the hours in which the world outside turned its worst, became a new seething mass.

Bruce had meant to leave for patrol well before this point. And now, as Jack nestled into his chest, he realized he simply _couldn’t_ leave. It wasn’t that he felt leaving Jack would have destroyed something about him- no, Jack had nails beneath his skin, he knew. He had been the Joker. He had been fear itself. Not that he did want to leave him, though- he had to be honest there. He wanted to drift off with Jack against him and sleep until morning.

But were he to leave, _someone would finally notice_. Jack wouldn’t sleep through Bruce untangling from him- and even if he did now, even if the sex had tired him out enough for that, he would surely wake up eventually and notice Bruce was gone. No, there was simply no way around it now. Bruce had condemned Batman to the realm of only imagination for the night.

Silently he cursed himself for being careless. How would he get around _this_? How had he not realized the complications bringing Jack back to his own bed would bring? And now that he was here, how could Bruce find a way to ever shut him out again? Jack was too inquisitive to simply accept Bruce allowing him in only every few nights. He wouldn’t simply see the outlines of Bruce’s secrets and let them be at peace.

Bruce didn’t know how he would fix this. All he simply knew was that, under no circumstances, could Jack know the truth. He could never know that Bruce was the big bad Bat that had stolen his heart and his life.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I contemplated waiting until tomorrow to post this, then decided I didn't want to XD

Jack curled up downstairs on the couch, after Bruce had left, tablet in hand. Alfred had gone out again, leaving him once more alone at the Manor. While he could admit- to himself only, of course- that he was a bit lonely, there was an aspect of trust that left him feeling strange.

Gotham news sites were a bit of a joke to him- so many were far more interested in paparazzi style reporting then anything else- but sometimes those did yield some interesting stories. He found his girl after only a few minutes of flipping- Harley with a big grin atop a smashed up car, with an old, steel baseball bat. Harley looking at the top of her game while behind her, flames licked at a jewelry store. He was sure she had emptied it already- she was far too smart to let things simply burn.

She had motives behind her- far more interested in having a goal then he had been. But that gave her an edge he could appreciate. Especially now, so removed from the world.

He only felt safe doing this now, completely alone. It felt like a small betrayal to Bruce, like he was allowing a part of him to linger that should have been erased. Like he was betraying his recovery. But there was nothing in the world that would erase Harley, and there was a bit of pride in him over the fact that she would, redoubtably, wrap Gotham around her finger someday.

Maybe she would take his place in the Bat’s nightly chases.

His chest tightened over that, the thought of the Bat’s affection focused on another. The spot he had taken up in the knight’s mind now going to someone else-

But he inhaled, exhaled, and his chest loosened. It was _alright_. If the Bat didn’t want to give in to what they had, _so be it_. At least Bruce didn’t fight him, didn’t shut him out. At least Bruce didn’t deny him.

Absent-mindedly, he reached down, stroking the scar along his palm. He thought of the scar along Bruce’s lower abdomen. The tiny other ridges he had felt. He thought of all the terrible little things that could have caused those scars- and couldn’t picture Bruce properly in a single scenario. There was something more, he was sure-

But he wanted so badly to ignore. He did want to believe that Bruce wouldn’t deny him anything- including the truth.

*

Bruce had wanted to discuss with Alfred that morning his dilemma- what he should do about Jack. But somehow he hadn’t gotten the chance, and instead he had spent his entire day at his office pondering what in the world he was going to do. Exactly _what_ could even be done.

It occurred to him, that there was only one thing he could do. Ensure that Jack slept through the end of the world, each and every night.

He had a tranquilizer that would do it, easily. And on hand, somewhere he could get to without Jack having to know. Stashed in his room, in case there was ever a need- Bruce wanted to be ever prepared. It wouldn’t be that hard to get a moment alone in there without Jack, he was sure. All he had to do was make sure he got enough of it into him that he slept through the night. Or even most of it- long enough for Bruce to catch a small patrol, to come back and get in bed without him knowing.

He just needed enough of a lie to keep the truth hidden.

When he finally got back to the manor, Jack was on a couch, reading on his tablet. Bruce leaned over him, kissed his temple, glanced at the story- about the two of them. “Couldn’t find anything better to read?”

“Maybe I’m _fascinated_ over how the world sees us.” He smiled, but let the tablet fall to his lap and reached up, sinking his hands into Bruce’s hair and pulling him down for another kiss. “Maybe I miss you enough that I’ll take even the lie they feed me.”

Bruce’s smile was completely fake.

He wasn’t sure how to do it- couldn’t drug him at dinner. No, that was far too early. Also it wouldn’t seem natural- he wanted Jack to slip into sleep and not even realize anything was amiss. He wanted as little stress as possible.

He had managed a moment to get the bottle of pills, had stashed them in the kitchen, hidden among more common drugs. He had never once seen Jack even look at any sort of medication, and didn’t think he would notice.

Still, his problem persisted. He tried to let it slip to the back of his mind- that the moment would find itself, but it nagged him. He felt distracted, even when Jack nearly dragged him to bed, even as the blond began to tug at his clothing, to tease him with kisses. Bruce felt on auto-pilot, hands moving over Jack but not really _feeling_.

He didn’t feel the way Jack traced the scars on his back.

He missed the way Jack studied every old injury he found.

Only when Jack was laying against the pillows, naked, did he finally see his chance, and come back to himself. He excused himself, throwing on a pair of pants and disappearing downstairs to the kitchen, getting two small glasses and filling them with water. On the counter, he crushed a single pill, mixing the powder into one glass and holding it in his right hand.

Oh, what a joke of fate if he were to mix the glasses up.

When he returned, Jack was lounging, smiling, taking the glass Bruce offered him and kissing his wrist, up along his forearm. “Ever the prince charming,” he teased, before drinking most of the glass, setting it aside. Bruce took a few sips, then joined him in bed, allowing Jack to nestle into his arms, the smaller man tracing fingers and hands up along his biceps, until the motions slowed, slowed-

Stopped.

Bruce waited a moment, whispered, “Jack?” and got no response. Carefully he pulled himself free, climbing out of the bed. He leaned over, brushed Jack’s hair back from his face- but the man did not wake up.

Relieved, Bruce hurried from the room, shutting the door as quietly as possibly, heading for the cave entrance. He was nearly there when a, “Master Bruce?” stopped him. He turned, and Alfred was there, a few paces back, looking at him rather confused. “Are you-“

“I’ve been gone too long.” Was all he said, as he worked open the hidden door, behind the old clock. Alfred followed him down, staying back as Bruce hurried about to get suited up.

“But sir, isn’t it rather...unwise to leave?” He paused another moment, before adding, “Someone might notice you are gone.”

“Jack won’t notice.”

“I would think he would have already noticed you gone, Sir.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“And sleeping men do eventually wake up.”

“Not for a good six hours,” Bruce added, adjusting his belt. Alfred frowned, and Bruce could sense his questions. He turned, fastening one side of his cape, as he said, “I'm sure of it, Alfred. I gave him a tranquilizer, he won’t wake up for about six hours. Enough time for me to at least disappear into the city for a bit. That’s all I need.”

“You did what now?” Alfred’s voice was suddenly loud, and Bruce froze, taken aback. “Please repeat yourself Master Bruce, I am afraid I must have misheard you.”

“You didn’t.”

Alfred frowned, his eyes hard, fixed on Bruce. Bruce didn’t like it. He took a few steps closer, stopping an arms length away, his voice a strange mix of venom, “ _you drugged him_.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, Alfred. You and I both know he would notice if I just disappeared. What other option did I have?”

“Perhaps simply _not disappearing_?” Bruce scoffed, finishing with his cape and picking up his cowl.

“Right. You’d have me take off my mask just like that, for no real reason?”

“No, Master Bruce. I’d have you take off your mask because you have found something _better_. You are proving that you can do this city a world of good as yourself, and not as Batman.”

“I’ve done-“

“You’ve fixed the goddamn Joker, _Sir_. The man that is sleeping in your bed right now is not the man he was- and while I am sure he still has a long way to go for a full recovery, he’s...he’s a man now, Master Bruce. I do not see a monster when I look at him, and neither do you.” Bruce said nothing, casting his eyes away, but Alfred kept his stare, cold, hard. “Think of what else you could do, to the rest of the criminal population. And even if you couldn’t- you’ve taken one of Gotham’s most terrifying men off the streets for good.”

“It’s not enough.”

“It has to be. You have to draw a line somewhere, Master Bruce. Let him be enough.”

Bruce said nothing, putting his cowl on and turning away from Alfred, who stared into his back until he was gone.

*

He dreamt, hazy washed-out images of things that were day-to-day, of clocks and stairs and the white porcelain of a sink. He dreamt of faces without mouths, of eyes without pupils. He dreamt of hands with no fingerprints, of teeth that grinned but had no mouth around them.

It felt like hours, years of it, an endless stream he was forced to watch with his eyelids pried open. When he finally broke from it, crawled out of the milky fluid of the dream itself, his eyes opening, he was blinded by the morning light. He squeezed his eyes shut, his skull feeling as if it was caving in, shards piercing into his brain. The pain had his stomach rolling, and he clutched at the bed, trying to steady himself.

He opened them again, another searing burst of pain, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to calm this. He felt like his arms and legs were wired wrong, as if there was a disconnect, and instead of climbing out of the bed he tumbled, landed on the floor with a loud groan, pain shooting up his shoulder.

He heard movement, felt hands on him a moment later, saw Bruce when he dared to open his eyes. _Fell_ he tried to say, but the words didn’t come out, only a whine. Bruce sat on the floor, pulled him into his arms, held him to his chest and stroked his hair, soothing the aches away. Jack fell into it, struggling inside his own skin, terrified over what was happening to him.

He was always in control of himself, _even when he wasn’t_. Even when his sensory perception threw him, there was always a feeling of having the strings of his body wrapped around his fingers. But this? This felt like he was drowning.

“You’re okay,” Bruce whispered, and Jack took a deep breath, hoping he was right.

*

Bruce carried Jack to his own room, settled him in bed and told him to try and sleep it off. The moment he left, he leaned against the door, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, cursing himself silently.

Had he given him too much? Had he misjudged somehow? The man looked as if he had spent the night with death, and Bruce couldn’t even imagine what he was feeling inside his body.

_But it had to be done_ he tried to reason, _you’ll do it right tonight. You’ll fix it_.

Having to explain Jack’s condition to Alfred though- that was something he couldn’t seem to do right. Alfred had never looked at him with eyes like that- eyes so angry that Bruce felt his chest go tight.

“I’ll do it right tonight,” Bruce finally said. “I will. I’ll give him less.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t go out tonight.”

“I have to. There was so much to do last night. I can’t be gone this long. The city needs me.”

“The man upstairs sleeping off the drugs _you gave him_ needs you.” Bruce frowned, setting his coffee down.

“I never thought I’d hear you defend him like this.” Alfred heaved a sigh, showing for the briefest of moments how simply _tired_ he was.

“That man is not the one you welcomed into this home. The man upstairs is someone entirely different- and someone I have grown to _enjoy_ Master Bruce. Someone who has given you as much therapy as you have given him. And you are throwing that away.”

“I’m not-“

“You are, when he finds out what you’ve done to him.” Bruce frowned. It was almost threatening- but he knew Alfred wouldn’t say a word.

*

Jack came around, slowly. By midday he felt himself, felt each nerve in his fingertips, every inch of skin on his body. Bruce was gone by now, and he took himself outside, alone, to breathe in the air and remind his lungs what it felt like to not be full of liquid.

Something was wrong, but he couldn’t but put his finger on it. He hadn’t felt so strange in so long- not since Arkham. They pumped him full of cocktails of drugs that always fucked with his head, left him feeling so _unnatural_. He avoided them at all costs, had gotten so good at it. And when he couldn’t avoid them, he was good at fighting _through_ them.

It had felt like that, like when they shoved a long needle into his arm and burst his veins with sedatives, to knock him out so they could run whatever tests they wanted on his unconscious body. Or if they simply wanted a quiet night. The distortions were similar- except what he had seen, they were from _this life_ , from Wayne Manor. The large main stair case, the old style clocks- the porcelain of the sink in his bathroom. All of it existed here.

He raked his hands back through his curls, and wondered if he was destroying himself. Was he doing something to off-set the delicate chemistry within his body? Was he allowing himself to be consumed, from the inside out?

He paced around outside, until the sun had shifted, until his bones decided they were tired, until he felt like the sun had seeped an inch too far below his skin. Inside, he found Alfred, who upon a single glance at him, gave him a sad sort of smile and said, “Let me get you a cup of tea.”

Jack couldn’t say no. Nor could he deny Alfred’s company when the two settled at the table, able to see the outside but not feel it. Jack stayed quiet, allowed Alfred to be the first one to break it, to ask very gently how he was feeling. Jack shrugged a shoulder, leaned his arms onto the table.

“Strange,” was all he could offer for a moment, as he tried to click each thought into place inside his head. “Strange like I felt in Arkham. Strange like...like I haven’t felt in quite some time.” He let his head bow down, his curls falling into his face, dusting along his scars. “I’m not crazy. I never have been. I’ve always told myself that...but...this morning.” He glanced over, not lifting his head, eyes barely visible. “This morning, I felt _sick_. Like I was swimming in my own body. Like I was pumped full of drugs. Like maybe...maybe I was crazy. Somewhere.”

There was a briefest moment of silence, before Alfred’s chair pushed back and he moved. Jack didn’t look up, but tensed when the older man’s arms were suddenly around his shoulders, the gentle embrace unexpected. It only took a moment for Jack to relax, to enjoy the way Alfred felt different from Bruce- Bruce held him a different way, enveloped him. Alfred, he did not over take- he simply existed, he simply covered what needed to be.

Jack reached up, gripped at his arms, turned his face and pressed it into his bicep. For a moment, he let himself go, let the fear sink into him, sink out of him, exist at all. The fear that he had always been wrong. That he _was_ crazy.

*

Come night, Bruce made his way into the cave, only to find Alfred waiting for him. Bruce stared at him for a brief moment, then, as if reading his mind, “He’s in his own room, Alfred. He said he needed...space.”

Bruce wouldn’t deny that it had been strange, to hear Jack whisper that, to have him pull away. It had made his chest ache, but he knew it was for the better. If he went tonight, perhaps he wouldn’t need to go out tomorrow. He didn’t _want_ to sedate Jack. He just saw no other option.

“You’ve terrified him.” Bruce watched as Alfred walked towards him. “The poor boy thinks he’s going crazy, sir. You...you cannot do it again.”

“Alf-“

“You _cannot_. You will undo everything you have worked so hard for. You’ll kill him.”

“I won’t kill him,” Bruce reasoned, “Alfred, I might have misjudged the dosage, but it wasn’t enough to _kill him_. I’m not careless.” The other man frowned, and Bruce swore he gritted his teeth.

“You’ll kill the man sleeping upstairs, Master Bruce. You will kill Jack. And then you will have nothing except the Joker. He will be back, sir. And he will truly be unhinged.” Bruce was quiet, watched as Alfred moved past him, leaving him alone.

Bruce set down, staring up at the large monitor, scrolling through. News stories, leads he needed to cover while he was out. And, something that had been eating at him, sitting there, saved- the endless search he had done through the Gotham census. A list of _Jacks_ who could all be strangers- or one could be a familiar face, the story of the man upstairs whom he was saving-

Or destroying.

Bruce sighed, hovering over the icon- and then choosing, instead of opening it, to delete it. He didn’t need to know who Jack had been, once, before he ever painted his face. All he needed to know was who he was now, in this moment. And who he would become.

Bruce simply had to make sure they got there. As ugly as the means were, he hoped they would be justified in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Brucie baby, that is not how you treat someone you love. Thank god Alfred can clean up your messes.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this took so long. I got a bit busy, needed a mental break, and then ended up writing another oneshot. But I swear the wait it worth it, as this update is the length of about three crammed together.

Sleeping in his own bed helped to clear his head, and when Jack awoke there was no milky dream stain behind his eyelids, no clenching of his stomach like he needed to vomit his every organ. No, just his bones and muscle _exactly_ where they should be beneath skin.

He left his room, hoping to find Bruce still sleeping- but his bed was empty. _Long empty_. Jack frowned, leaving the room and finding Alfred downstairs, it seemed taking an inventory of the kitchen for a near future shopping trip.

“Where’s Bruce?” he asked, and Alfred gave him a _good morning_ nod.

“Master Bruce left early this morning. A string of meetings. I’m afraid I’m all the company you’ll get today.” He looked almost sorry, but Jack shrugged a shoulder, leaning against the fridge.

“Are you going out?” An affirmative nod, and Jack played with one of his curls. “Want some company?” Alfred glanced at him, then, with a faint smile crossing his own face,

“Master Jack, I would love some.”

Jack left the window down and enjoyed the breeze while Alfred drove the two of them into the city. He had sunglasses on- a pair he had taken right off of Bruce’s face one afternoon, that Bruce had laughed and told him to keep, and had pulled as many of his curls as possibly back into a little ponytail. He knew it exposed his scars, but he liked the feeling of the air and the sun on them so freely. Besides, he and Alfred both knew it was simply a matter of time before he was recognized.

Alfred’s running around wasn’t anything too exciting, but Jack enjoyed the change of scenery. He enjoyed being in Gotham again, the scents and the sights. It was a rush to his head that he welcomed. It was a flood of memories he could enjoy later.

And, as always, he enjoyed Alfred’s company. Every smile he got from the man felt like an accomplishment, as it did with Bruce. These two men that now populated his life so thickly were simply too _serious_. They needed to have a little fun.

“Perhaps you would like to see where Master Bruce spends so much of his time,” Alfred said, as he handed Jack a bag and the blond settled it into the trunk.

“I _have_ seen Wayne Enterprises,” he pointed out, “Maybe just never through the, ah, front door.” Alfred chuckled.

“Well, perhaps it’s time you have a proper tour.”

*

Jack thought to ask if they would be disturbing Bruce- if this was something they were even allowed to do. But no one questioned Alfred when they entered the large building. Sure, there were plenty of glances shot towards him, but not a single person dared to say a word of it to Alfred. Jack liked that.

Alfred was telling him about one time when Bruce was little, when his parents were still alive, and he had brought him here to visit his father. Bruce had tore away from him the moment the elevator doors opened, and gotten himself completely lost in the busy stream of people and foreign office doors. Alfred had found him behind a large potted plant, too embarrassed to admit he was _scared_.

Another ghostly small Bruce that Jack accepted and locked away. The child seemed to have a head full of fear. Jack wished he knew how much of it had truly remained.

Alfred led him down a lng hallway, so high up in the building that Jack wasn’t sure he wanted to glance out the large windows- afraid he would _miss_ being so high up, running, so _free_. He tried to say positioned behind Alfred as he greeted a young man, who said Mr. Wayne was in his office, that his next meeting was scheduled in a half hour.

Alfred walked up to the door, knocked, and Jack heard Bruce call for them to enter- not that he knew who they were. Jack hesitated as Alfred entered, waiting a brief moment before allowing himself to enter too.

Bruce was at his desk, typing on a laptop. He only looked up when Jack closed the door, his eyes darting between the two. Jack held his breath for a moment- but then when Bruce smiled, he exhaled, feeling secure.

“Well, definitely not who I was expecting.” Alfred smiled, greeting him, explaining about their little outing, while Jack silently made his way towards the desk, around it’s edge. He expected Bruce to acknowledge him- but he didn’t expect the man to stand, to catch his chin in one strong hand and hold him as he kissed him openly. With Alfred watching. With the world outside his door.

Jack clutched at his wrist, managed to keep the tiny sound in his throat silent, managed to keep from pushing Bruce down into his chair and crawling into his lap. Instead he only smiled when Bruce pulled back, when his lover reached behind him to curl his fingers in his little ponytail.

“I hope you haven’t been causing trouble,” he teased, and Jack’s smile grew.

“I’ve been a good little girl, on my honor.” He winked, and Bruce laughed, turning to Alfred now, mentioning something that went well over Jack’s head. He didn’t care for business. Even when the streets of Gotham had been his, business was always the unpleasant part. He was happy to tune them out here.

He felt good, far better then he had previously. The scare he had given himself, thinking on the strangeness of the previous morning seemed silly now. Perhaps he had simply been sick. It _did_ happen.

“I want him to come,” Bruce was saying, as Jack tuned back in, “Would you take him in for a fitting? I’ve got the appointment made. I was going to call before you came.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.” Jack raised an eyebrow, as the two turned to him.

“Care to clue me in?”

“Just a charity event, it’s coming up in a few days. I’d like you to come with me.” Jack almost laughed, thought perhaps Bruce was joking- but that mouth was set in its serious line, and those eyes showed not a hint of a joke.

“You’re serious?” Bruce nodded.

“Of course. It’s a bit last minute, but I know where we can get you a suit in time. Alfred is going to take you for me- I think I may be here rather late.” Bruce slipped his arm around Jack, pulling him into his side. “Unless of course you don’t want to come.”

“Oh Brucie,” Jack whispered, leaning into him, “I think I’d simply _love_ to be your arm candy for the evening.”

*

When Bruce finally did get back home, it was already dark. He expected to find Jack in either his own room, or with Alfred- instead, he found him sitting on the wide stairs that led into the manor, seeming to enjoy the cool dark that had settled over the grounds.

Bruce walked up to him, opened the button on his jacket as he turned and sat next to him, letting their thighs brush. “How long have you been out here?”

“Maybe an hour now.” Jack glanced at him, smiled. “It’s a pretty night.” Bruce nodded, let his arm slip around Jack, hold him gently. It _was_ a pretty night, and he was brought back to other nights, other pretty nights, where this man didn’t rest against him so easily, where he left Bruce with bruises and scars.

It was such a clear night that he should be going out- but Bruce remembered what Alfred had said to him. So sure that he was going to kill Jack if he continued to sedate him. That he’d give birth to the Joker all over again.

And it was that, mixed with the way Jack felt leaning against his shoulder, the way his hair smelled, the way his hand found Bruce’s thigh, squeezed it gently. It was this plethora of things that let him stay in, for just one night. Just one more.

*

The days to the charity event melted away quickly. Jack found himself alone most mornings, left with a groggy feeling, not nearly as bad as that one morning where he was sure he was going _crazy_ , but still unsettling. Often he was waking up to Alfred telling him Bruce had gone into the city already- gone, it seemed, were the days where he stayed all morning with Jack and let the rest of the world wait until he had gotten a little taste.

And while Jack disliked it, he didn’t _blame_ Bruce. He was busy. He could understand that. He managed to entertain himself, with Alfred at times, others alone. He had taken to glancing through the old medical textbook Bruce had given him again, in the privacy of his own room- more to enjoy the fact that Bruce had given him such an absurd thing that had broken a plethora of rules for his _therapy_. Mostly because it was something Bruce had given him.

He, on occasion, had flipped open to the center, where he kept Harley’s note. He touched it, felt the wrinkles in the paper under his fingertips. He traced a few letters. He remembered her. He _missed_ her. But he didn’t miss the rest of it, not nearly as much as he expected. He would always hold a love for thr freedom he had had, but with Bruce he could forget just how badly he had loved the cold Gotham air, the smell of gasoline, the feeling of greasepaint.

The shadow of the Bat on his heels.

He’d gone and been fitted for a suit, as Bruce had said he would be. He had teased that it should be purple, but Alfred had sternly said black- it would match Bruce. He’d given in- but his shirt was purple, and that was enough. Let Bruce be the boring one in white, he was _supposed_ to be arm candy, anyway.

The day of, Jack had woken up with that horrible groggy feeling, his head feeling stuffed with stale cotton, soaked in peroxide at the center. He’d tried to sleep it off for another hour, but it had persisted, until he finally stumbled from the bed and locked himself in Bruce’s bathroom. He was gone, of course, and Jack was glad as his stomach rolled and he fell to his knees, clutching at the toilet seat and vomiting whatever was left in his stomach.

It wasn’t the first time he had been sick, either. Maybe there truly was something _wrong_ with him, very wrong. Maybe it wasn’t in his head. Maybe he should see a doctor-

He’d laugh, if he wasn’t sure that would have him vomiting up his intestines. Like he needed to give any doctor an excuse to poke and prod at him. Oh, no, no, no, no, _no_.

A shower helped, and by the afternoon he felt fine, back to himself. Good enough to traipse around the manor with Alfred, poking him with questions about _who would be there_ and what the charity event would be like. Not that he truly needed to know- he’d crashed a hundred events in Gotham easily. But this was seeing it from entirely new eyes.

*

When Bruce returned home, there was an anxious twist in his stomach. Back in his skull, there was the nagging notion that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to put Jack through this. Through the stares and the questions and the snide remarks, and the guaranteed media to be covering the event. But at the same time, Bruce wanted him by his side, so badly. Wanted Jack on his arm with his dazzling smile, proving the entire world wrong.

Let them meet the man behind the laughter.

“He is in his room,” Alfred said, as Bruce loosened his tie. “He has a message for you, Sir.”

“Oh?” Bruce was contemplating a cup of coffee before a shower, before he started to get ready for the evening. He wasn’t looking at Alfred as the man cleared his throat.

“Yes. He said, _a bride never lets the groom see her in her dress before the ceremony_.” Alfred paused, then, “Sir.” Bruce turned to stare at him, and Alfred chuckled. “You should have seen his face when it said it, Master Bruce. He’s rather excited. Putting it lightly.”

Bruce couldn’t fight back his smile, nodding. “So I take it I’m not going to see him until we’re leaving?”

“That would be correct, sir. I told him I would offer my assistance, should he need anything. I do believe he is in the shower again now.”

“Well that’s a shame, then. We could have saved time and done that together.” Alfred only shook his head, despite Bruce’s teasing smile, leaving him be and walking off before Bruce could make another joke.

*

Jack sat on his bed in his underwear for quite some time, toweling off his hair and letting the air begin to dry it. He didn’t want to get dressed with his hair soaking wet. He toyed with the curls, wrapping them around his fingers and letting them spring free, folding his legs up to drum his fingers on his calves and thighs when he wasn’t playing with his hair. Alfred had told him they should be leaving the Manor by eight, and he kept an eye on the clock in his room, not wanting to make Bruce late.

Granted, it seemed _oh so fun_ , the idea of crashing in when the party was under way. All those eyes on them. All those hungry stares. Jack shivered thinking about it.

He was ready for the attention, the spotlight. It was as close as he was going to get to what he used to feel, being at the center of Gotham’s attention with his homicidal antics.

Finally, hair mostly dry, he started dressing. He had half expected to be fitted for a tuxedo, but rather preferred the suit he had been given instead. Granted, he wouldn’t have gone with _black_ , but Alfred hadn’t given him a choice. At least he’d made sure it was fitted tightly. He wasn’t one for excess clothing hanging off him.

He had gotten his way with his shirt though, a rich purple that made him smile, hard as he had tried to not. He took his time with each small black button, before tying the black tie- printed with a white pasily pattern, and slipping into the matching waist coat. The pattern had made Alfred frown- he had reminded Jack that perhaps something less _flashy_ was in order.

Jack had reminded him that he was, if anything else, quite _flashy_. Bruce could be drab as he wanted to be. Besides, the jacket and pants were black, black as night, as that flighty ex of his’s cape. Boring. But once he was fully dressed and looking in the mirror, Jack _didn’t hate it_. He toyed with a few curls, letting them frame his face freely, tickling along his scars, before deciding there was nothing else at his disposal that he could add- oh, he’d love some kohl for his eyes, some red for his lips. But that might be pushing it too far.

The locks on his door were still in their sleeping stasis, and he slipped out into the hallway, adjusting his cuff links as he made his way downstairs, and not towards Bruce’s room. His footsteps drew out Alfred, who stopped and admire him as he descended, smiling.

“What do you think, Alfred? Did my fairy godmother do well?” Jack hopped off the last step anf stretched his arms out, twirling once and smiling. Alfred walked over, reaching out to adjust his tie, the line of his waistcoat.

“You look rather dashing, Master Jack. Master Bruce will indeed approve.” Jack smiled, reaching out to Alfred and throwing his arms around his shoulders, squeezing him. For a moment, Alfred was tense, but then he relaxed, patting Jack’s shoulder.

“Told you the paisley was a nice, ah, touch.”

“You were indeed correct.” Jack stepped back, smiling, holding onto Alfred’s arms, wanting to squeeze him again. Yes, this man definitely had earned his affection.

His attention, however, was diverted when he heard Bruce clear his throat, standing at the top of the stairs and looking down at them. Jack grinned and turned, throwing his arms out. “Well hello dollface. Usually the princess gets to make a grand entrance, not the prince. But I’ll allow it.” Bruce chuckled as he made his way down the stairs, throwing an arm around Jack’s waist and pulling him in, kissing his smile quickly.

“We’ll do it right next time,” he promised, and Jack reached up, running his hands along the lapels of his black jacket.

“Oh, we better, sugar.”

*

Bruce kept glancing at Jack, the two of them settled in the back of the car as Alfred drove. Jack didn’t seem to notice, for once, and was once again enthralled by the ride itself. But Bruce wanted to take him in, more then he had briefly before they had left. He’d grown used to seeing him in rather mundane clothing, and the suit looked _good_. Reminiscent perhaps of the old days, of his trips atop rooftops, but only faintly, only in the purple of his shirt, the flash of paisley.

He also couldn’t help but think that black was a good color on him.

As they entered the city, Bruce took his hand, running his thumb along Jack’s knuckles, getting his attention. The blond glanced over, staring at Bruce’s attempt at a reassuring smile. “Just follow my lead,” he offered, “And if it seems like it’s all too much, let me know. We can leave- or at least get some privacy.”

“Privacy hmmm?” Jack turned towards him, reaching his free hand out and gripping high on Bruce’s thigh. “Don’t be tempting me too much, pretty boy. Wouldn’t wanna ruin that suit of yours.” He winked, and Bruce felt color rising in his cheeks. He chose to chase it away by tugging Jack in, kissing him quickly- or meaning for it to be quick. But those scarred lips moved against his sweetly, the blond’s tongue flicking against his mouth, and suddenly Bruce was opening for him, reaching down to over the hand on his thigh with his own.

“Perhaps that is an activity best saved for the end of the evening,” Alfred called back, glancing in his rear view mirror. “We are about to arrive.”

Bruce pulled back, but caught that playful glint in Jack’s eyes. And the fear he had about overwhelming the man truly began to dissipate. Perhaps this could go better then expected.

*

The car stopped at the entrance to the building, and over Bruce, out the opposite window, Jack could see the clamoring out media, camera shutters snapping like crazy, as the guests for the evening eased into the building. Someone opened the door, and Bruce stepped out, smiling and waving, greeting someone. Jack glanced up at Alfred, catching his eyes in the mirror, and the man smiled at him.

“It’s just one night,” he reminded Jack, who grinned.

“One night to win over the whole city. I like these odds.”

Then Bruce was turning, reaching a hand in, and Jack took it, allowing Bruce to help him out of the car. The moment he stepped out he heard shouting, but Bruce didn’t give him a moment to try and sort through it. Clutching his hands tightly, he guided him into the lavish building, away from the cameras, and into a different sort of chaos.

Controlled. That’s what Jack thought. Politely smiling faces and forced laughs, sparkling teeth and dresses and jewelry, and so many faces he couldn’t stop glancing in every direction.

He heard someone calling out to Bruce, and turned, watched Bruce lift his hand in a wave, and then they were moving, crossing towards a man in a white suit, flanked by a woman in a startling red dress. The color was a thing of dreams. Jack wanted to touch it.

“Bruce, good to see you!” Bruce pulled his hand from Jack, shaking this man’s hand, saying something, then turning to the woman who was introduced and taking her hand delicately.

“This is Jack,” he offered, glancing at Jack, and suddenly both sets of eyes were on him, his face, the scars you could see where his curls had pushed back. Jack forced a smile, taking the man’s hand- his name had gone completely through his head- and shaking it.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Bruce Wayne, should have known you’d show up with company that would blow the rest of us out of the water. I did rather like that time you came with the troop of models.” Jack had his hand back now, saw Bruce blushing as the man went off on this story, and instead turned to the woman, offering her a smile and his hand.

“Pleasure,” she said, and her smile seemed a bit more real. Less intrusive.

“I like your dress.” Her smile grew and she laughed, reaching up to cover her mouth, her other hand holding a tall glass of champagne. “Was that cliche?”

“A little.” Jack shrugged a shoulder, and she moved her hand. “I like your tie.”

Jack knew, in that moment, he definitely wasn’t the only one out of his element here. And that made it so much easier.

Jack didn’t say much otherwise, as the evening drew on. He shuffled from person to person with Bruce, he listened to people talk- he took in their stares. They all looked over him, between he and Bruce with obvious questions- and Bruce entirely ignored it. Jack wasn’t sure if he liked that Bruce seemed to not give a shit, or if he wanted the man to just go on a tirade about how he was fucking Jack senseless and it was _great_ , if anyone was curious.

At one point, Bruce had handed him a champagne glass, but he only sipped at it idly. If anything, it was something to occupy his hands, as they moved up a few floors, Bruce wanting to hear a speech from someone whose name Jack had never heard before- or, he had, but he didn’t really care, or have a face for the man.

“I think I need some air,” Jack admitted, seeing the balcony at the far end of the room, the Gotham skyline- and suddenly aching to be close to it. In the dark. Bruce looked at him, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Should I come with you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jack assured him, “Really. You stay.” He didn’t want to take Bruce away from this, he knew the man did have face to keep- but there was something else, in his belly. Something telling him he needed the dark, needed it to be just him and the shadows.

He got a few glances as he slipped through the crowds, but blissfully he was otherwise left alone, and able to slip through the ornate glass doors with ease. No one was on the balcony, and he made it to the edge with a few quick steps, setting his glass down and gripping the railing with both hands.

He inhaled, deeply, let the scents of the city rush into his body. The air was cool up here, not as good as the rooftops, but still better then walking along the sidewalks. His hands tightened around the railings and he closed his eyes, traveling back in memory to those glorious nights, to the feeling of the heat of explosions on his back as he ran. To Harley cackling loudly with him, the two of them out running the Bat until he couldn’t take the suspense and he’d simply wait.

The feeling of punches to his ribs, his jaw, the Bat’s solid weight pinning him down. The way he’d push against him any way possible, the vulgar things he’d whisper. Oh, how he had wanted that big bad Bat. And in his memory, these moments were all locked away for life.

He would never be under him again. He would never run from him again. Batman was, if he was honest, truly the _ex_ he teasingly spoke of. And he never had the chance to mourn that lose.

Jack’s eyes opened when the glass doors opened and someone stepped out. He glanced back, didn’t recognized the young man that was pulling out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a deep drag. Jack turned back to the skyline, and knew one day, soon he was sure, he would mourn Batman. He’d close himself off from the world for a night, and he would give up the dream of that masked man and the future they could have had, under Gotham’s moon.

But that wasn’t tonight, Jack had to remind himself. Because tonight he was here for _Bruce_ , he was proving a point, that the man hadn’t been crazy to free him, to put his trust in him. And he was proving to himself that it was truly okay to trust Bruce.

“You’re here with Wayne, aren’t you?” Jack turned fully, leaning back against the railing, realizing the man who had walked out was watching him. He flicked the ash off his cigarette, then took another drag.

“I am.” Jack gave him a smile, his curls falling back, exposing the scars on his cheeks. The man didn’t seem frightened.

“Didn’t peg him as the gay type. Considering all his escapades.” Jack wanted to ask who had said anything about him being here as Bruce’s _partner_ , but at the same time he didn’t want to. He wanted everyone to know that he wasn’t here just as Bruce’s passing science project. He was a fucking human being and he was here because the man he loved had brought him.

Oh, he hadn’t just thought _that_ word, had he?

“You, I could peg you as that type.” This guy’s gaze was eating into him, and Jack felt his smile turning into a smirk. _Oh, checking me out hmmm?_ And the man was, he knew. He knew the look, the half smirk. And he wasn’t _bad_ , a little scruffier then Jack typically went for, and his hair was more of a brown then Bruce’s black. Not quite dark enough.

But most importantly- _not Bruce_.

“You feel safe with those words? Considering _who I am_.” Jack reached for his glass, didn’t drink but swirled the champagne around idly. He thought he might spook the guy a bit, and go back to his peace for a few more minutes. But the man just smiled, exhaling his smoke and taking a step closer.

“I do, actually. Because if you weren’t a tame little puppy now, Wayne wouldn’t have brought you out here. So, am I treading on Wayne Enterprise territory here, or are you still fair game?”

Part of Jack liked this. Part of Jack liked the way this guy seemed almost feral, like he was _tough shit_ and could take the city on. He wanted to teach him a lesson. Oh, that could be _so very sweet_.

But he didn’t like being called a _puppy_ , nor did he like to be thought of as _property_. And that out weighed any fun this man could have been- had Jack not felt any sort of tie to Bruce. _0 for 2 then_.

Jack was going to speak, his lips set in a serious line, eyes going dark- but the glass door was opening, and Bruce was stepping out, stopping a moment to glance between the two. Then, without so much as acknowledgement for this nameless man, he was walking over to Jack, reaching up and wrapping his hand around the champagne glass he still held.

“Come back inside,” he said, and oh, _was that a playful hint to his voice_? He tilted Jack’s glass, sipping at it with both their hands still clasping it, and Jack felt his stomach going tight. “I miss you.”

Jack was gone in that moment, melted into a pitiful mess of butterflies and liquid bone. He could drown in those dark eyes, and happily took Bruce’s arm, allowing his lover to take his glass, and followed him back inside.

*

Bruce hadn’t been lying when he had said he missed Jack. But when he had seen him out there, under a gaze that wasn’t his own- something had kicked in. Some sort of need to mark that Jack was his, to show his affection openly. Until this point, it had been there, but so subtle. But now Bruce felt himself burning with it, loving the way Jack was pressed up against his arm. When they stopped to talk to another couple, Bruce let his arm slip around Jack’s waist, hold him close.

Small touches, that was what Bruce suddenly couldn’t get enough of. What he was going to drown Jack in he was sure, as the night went on. A hand on the small of his back, their fingers laced together. Jack drank it down- Bruce didn’t doubt he would enjoy it.

Bruce had just finished speaking to someone, who was wondering off, when Jack turned to him, reaching up and carefully adjusting his tie. He glanced up at Bruce, through those blond lashes, and Bruce felt his heart thudding against his ribs. Jack was down right _pretty_ , with those eyes and freckles, the smile lines, the perfect curve of his lips. And Bruce couldn’t help himself.

He reached up, cupping his face, thumbs running along his scars, held him still as he kissed him, gently on his lips. It was quick, overly sweet, and Bruce swore he had butterflies when he pulled back- could almost see them in Jack’s eyes too.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered, thumbs moving over his cheeks again. Jack’s eyelids fluttered, and Bruce wondered if he could _hear_ the man’s pulse. Jack turned, kissed one of Bruce’s palms.

“Just for you, dollface.” Another kiss, and Bruce had to take his palm back, afraid the Joker would push his sleeve up, find his wrist, taste his pulse. Not here. Definitely not here.

Well. Probably not here.

Bruce wasn’t sure how much he truly cared.

“I think it’s time I called Alfred,” he whispered, “Unless you want to stay later?”

“I’m ready to go home whenever you want sugar. Besides, keep me out too late and my dress turns to rags. Wouldn’t be fun in front of all your friends.” Jack winked, and Bruce took his hand, squeezing it as he chuckled.

*

Jack knew that, by the time they left, word of their little kiss had traveled through every mouth within the building- and he was sure, plenty outside. He didn’t care- especially if Bruce didn’t. He rather liked the open affection. Let them all know he’d managed to snag _Bruce Wayne_.

In the back of the car, it seemed that Bruce was still feeling it. His hands kept running along Jack’s thighs, his mouth on his neck, and Jack had to bite his lip to keep quiet. He wouldn’t mind an audience- but not Alfred, definitely not.

But it seemed the moment they were back at the manor, Bruce was dragging him out of the car. Jack laughed as they quite literally ran into the house, pulling his hand away and bounding up half the flight of stairs, turning to grin at Bruce playfully.

“C’mon pretty boy,” he teased, “come catch me.” And then he turned and was off again, bounding up the stairs. He heard Bruce behind him, laughing- and for a moment, he wondered how much champagne the two of them had drank. Bruce, at least. But he was sure it wasn’t that much.

This was simply happening. Happening because Bruce was crazy about him- and maybe, for tonight, he could let himself believe that.

Jack ran towards the end of the hallway, slipping into Thomas Wayne’s office, and running to the desk, curling up beneath it. He knew Bruce would assume he’d go straight to his bedroom, and counted on those few minutes of him wondering, wondering where Jack could have gone. A little cat and mouse was always a good way to spend the night.

And oh, did Jack love a good game of cat and mouse. His blood was hammering in his veins, like the many nights he’d run from the Bat, his fingers curling into the material of his jacket, uncurling, twisting and twitching, excited. So distracted by the pounding of his pulse in his head, he missed the heavy wooden door opening, closing. Missed the sound of footsteps as they crossed the room.

When the chair was shoved back from the desk and a pair of strong hands were grabbing him, Jack gave a startling cry, eyes wide as Bruce dragged him out and lifted him, hoisting him up onto the desk. He could barely breathe before Bruce’s mouth was on his, his hands up under his jacket, gripping his waist. He fit between Jack’s thighs perfectly, and then one hand was off his waist, slipping down to work on opening his pants-

Oh god, _here_? Jack’s mind twisted, flipped, his stomach tight with excitement. That hadn’t been his goal, when hiding in here- but the idea was so beyond thrilling that his hands were reaching out for Bruce, working on whatever buttons he could find, wanting his skin.

Bruce was going to fuck him in this safe haven of a nightmare.

Bruce was going to fuck him in the room where the shadow monsters of his childhood lived.

Jack moaned into Bruce’s mouth when the man had his hand around his cock, was stroking him. He tipped his head back, breaking the kiss, and Bruce kissed at the pale of his throat, all that his clothing left exposed. Jack pulled his own hands back, so he could strip of his jacket, tossing it away, working on his waist coat. He wanted it gone. Wanted to have Bruce opening him up.

He wanted the monsters from his boyhood to find their sweet home in his body.

Bruce stopped touching him to untie Jack’s tie, drop it down onto the desk. His shirt and waistcoat now open, Jack felt the room’s cool air hitting his throat, chest, a scar along his collar bone. He groaned, fidgeting as he lifted his hips so Bruce could grab the waist of his pants and underwear, dragging them down his thighs. He kicked his shoes off, and his clothing was left in a heap- and then Bruce was back, one hand in his hair, tugging those perfect curls as he kissed him, the other on his thigh, squeezing.

“On your hands and knees,” he breathed, into the corner of Jack’s mouth, into a scar, and the blond was scrambling to comply, turning and pushing up onto his hands and knees, feeling his open shirt and waist coat rustling around him. No sooner then he was turned did he feel Bruce’s hands on his ass, parting flesh and then his mouth there, tongue pressing along his entrance.

He gave a cry, eyes going wide, felt a tremor strike right through him. His hands tried to clutch at the desk, but there was nothing for the smooth, old wood to give, and he was left scrambling, shaking, his cock achingly hard, neglected and threatening to drip right onto the desk.

Bruce’s tongue was relentless, pushed right into his body with little warning, and Jack was seeing stars, seeing shapes in the dark. Seeing ghosts and clawed hands and big, fleshy wings, and he smiled at them and welcomed all of Bruce’s night time demons.

“F-uck,” he groaned, feeling Bruce’s hands leaving him but that mouth still teasing, expertly- how the _hell_ was he so good at it? Jack sucked onto his lower lip, before his eyes widened when Bruce’s hands were back, when his fingers were slick and replacing his mouth, two inside him before he could even breathe.

Had he been planning this the whole night? Had he been walking around, prepared to fuck Jack into oblivion at any moment? Or...had he been prepared to do it in here? _How could he be so far inside Jack’s head_?

Bruce pushed Jack’s clothing up, let his hand rest on the small of his back as he stretched him, fucked him with his fingers, as Jack trembled around him, feeling so undone already. The corners of his eyes were wet, and he released his lip to let his jaw go slack as a third finger was added, as Bruce’s thumb traced little circles in the small of his back.

“You’re doing so well,” he nearly purred, “You’re a thing of wonder, Jack.” Jack openly trembled, felt like Bruce’s words were suffocating him. He just wanted him to be _happy with him_ , proud, and that was so terrifying. “Do you want me to fuck you now?”

Who was this man, this wasn’t Bruce- this was something else, someone else, someone in total control of every moment, every breath. This was someone in complete control of Jack’s very being.

“ _Please_.” The whine was pitiful, but Jack didn’t care. He was enthralled, he was dying to feel this Bruce who wasn’t his lover, who was but yet something darker, perhaps? Who seemed to embody the shadows in the room, the nightmares of long years of childhood.

Bruce didn’t give Jack another moment, he eased the head of his slick cock right into his body, had Jack groaning as inch by inch he impaled him, until he had nothing to give, until he was pushed flush against Jack’s ass. Bruce hadn’t taken a single piece of clothing off- and somehow, that made this better.

His hands held Jack’s hips as he set a rhythm, ruthless and brutal and something Jack needed _so desperately_. His head was swirling, and he wanted to scream, scream out to Bruce and the demons and every little speck of dust in the room. Every breath felt like needles, like something was piercing his insides- but that was drowned out by the absolute pure pleasure of Bruce filling him so completely, of every nerve in his body sparking to life.

Bruce was hitting his sweet spot without even _trying_ , and Jack was so close to being undone already, his cock leaking down onto the desk. He wanted to reach down, to stroke himself, but he was afraid if he did he would fall. He needed both hands to ground himself, to hold on.

He was so sure he was staring over the edge of the very Earth.

“Bruce,” he whined, pushing back, adding to that brutal pace. “Let-me-“

One of Bruce’s hands was around him then, the other still holding his hip, sure to leave behind small finger print bruises. But _oh_ , that hand around him was perfect, knew exactly how to stroke, what pressure was needed-

Jack was coming before he even could register the feeling, the sudden weight of the pleasure slamming into him like a freight train. He screamed, wordless, shaking around Bruce, clenching rhythmically as his release tossed him over the edge of the world, that edge he had been staring down so easily.

The moment the waves had subsided, Bruce was pulling out, grabbing Jack, taking his balance and flipping him onto his back. The movement was rough, Jack’s back slamming against the desk, but then Bruce was there again, _inside him_ , leaning over him as he fucked him with abandon, fucked him whatever way he wanted.

Jack couldn’t deny him. He was king of these shadows, and he swore they were holding him down, their weight on his wrists, his chest, making it so even if he had wanted to escape Bruce, he couldn’t.

Not that he did.

There were sounds echoing off the walls, and it took Jack far too long to realize they were his cries, his screams, his _sobs_ , his body so raw with pleasure that he couldn’t _handle_ the way Bruce was driving into him, the way he was hitting his prostate still, the way his teeth were bared, that feral look in his dark eyes.

He was owning Jack. He was taking him, proving a point that this man _belonged_ to him. Jack tried to spread his thighs move, his hips aching, wanting it, wanting Bruce to leave his mark.

He’d be princess to this shadow-demon king any day.

Bruce’s grunts and groans were driving him made, his stomach a mess of fluttering, dark and fleshy, like _bats_ , and Jack’s face was wet, his tears blatant with each sob, each gasp for breath. Bruce’s hands on the desk, at his sides, were flexing, his own orgasm _right there_ , and Jack wanted it, needed it.

When Bruce did come, a growl echoing up from his chest, Jack’s own gasps and sobs echoed around it, feeling those jerky thrusts, that wet heat- and he was coming again, without warning, body clenching onto Bruce so tightly the man was cursing, cursing out Jack and his perfection.

Despite feeling like his entire body was liquid, Jack forced himself up, locked his arms around Bruce’s shoulders, hands burying in his hair as he kissed him, kissed him raw and breathless, with teeth and a ferocity in his belly that had seemed to lie dormant for some time. Bruce returned the fervor, growling into Jack’s throat, not pulling from his body as he clutched at him.

“What was that,” Jack breathed into him, even as he bit his lip. Bruce smirked, but didn’t say anything, let his blunt nails dig into Jack’s back through his clothing. The blond groaned, shivered, let his lover kiss up along one curve of scars.

*

When they had finally calmed down, when the passion simmered to a slight bubbling within their blood, Jack couldn’t help but laugh over it all. Laugh over the fact that he had to strip completely and walk out of the office in just his underwear, carrying his clothing in a heap.

“Best not let Alfred in there,” Jack teased, and Bruce rolled his eyes, shoving him a step into Bruce’s bedroom. Jack turned and stuck his tongue out, child like, as Bruce disappeared, most likely on a hunt to warn Alfred against exactly that. Jack dropped his clothes on the floor, crawling into the bed, stretching out on the cool sheets and sighing.

Whatever he had seen in Bruce, he hoped he saw it again. He felt sore, an ache in his body that told him he might want to be careful how he sat, come morning- but if he had it his way, he’d make it all worse come morning by climbing atop a half-asleep Bruce and riding him until he was _more then awake_.

He curled up against one of the pillows, inhaling the smell of Bruce’s hair, his cologne, and wondered what the hell was taking so long. He wanted him wrapped up around him, playing with his hair. Wanted to fall asleep knowing that he had made Bruce proud- and oh, if the sex was his reward, he’d be a goddamn good little puppy all Bruce wanted.

Drowsy from the long night, from swallowing down all of Bruce’s silent demons, from the sweetest hell he had ever put his body through, he felt as if he was drifting, in and out. Finally, when Bruce returned, he looked up, expecting that sweet, dark smile-

His face was very serious. _Too serious_.

“Why so serious?” Jack asked, but Bruce ignored the question, settling on the bed and stroking one hand along his curls. His other hand was holding a small glass.

“I thought you might be thirsty.” He handed it to Jack, who took it and tried to bring a smile to that face.

“Well look at you go, prince charming.” He raised it in a little mock cheer, taking a sip. “Now get down here, that was something fucking _wild_ and I think we need to detox.”

He just wanted Bruce’s arms around him, then.

“Soon,” Bruce said, offering up a smile. Was it sad? Was Jack seeing things? “I have some...business that I have to take care of.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “It’s the middle of the night, Bruce.” He took another sip, the water cool against his hot throat.

“I know. It won’t take long. Just lie down. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He leaned forward, kissed Jack’s forehead, then reached for the hand holding the glass, guiding it to Jack’s lips. “I’ll take care of you when I’m back, I promise.”

Could he read Jack’s mind? Did he know that Jack felt like he was coming down off some sort of high, that he needed Bruce’s arms around him to steady him. Like he needed his affection- because whatever had just happened, it had been so much, and Jack- Jack didn’t have that sweet laughing shield he had always otherwise had for himself.

It was the strangest subdrop-like experience of his life.

Jack only nodded, saying nothing against the glass pressed to his lips as Bruce got up, leaving the room, leaving Jack in the lush darkness. He pulled the glass away from his mouth, sitting there was nothing but the ghosts that had seeped into his skin, wondering if their arms would be enough to ease him through the night.

He knew they wouldn’t be. And he didn’t see why Bruce needed to be up, all alone. So, pushing himself off the bed and setting his water aside, he hunted for some of his clothing, finding a pair of jeans and a tshirt that he had left in here a day prior- he would be sure to tease Alfred about missing them- and, once he was dressed, slipped out of the bedroom and into the dark hallways.

He could hear Bruce, downstairs, his voice echoing. The words were garbled, but he knew the canter of his voice. He made his way to the stairs, moving quickly- but half way down he had to reach out, grab the railing, feeling his head going slightly foggy. The drowsiness he had felt when Bruce had been gone came back, gnawing at him, but he shook his head, pushing it away, continuing down until his feet hit the cool floor.

He followed the sounds, down a hallway that he was fairly sure led nowhere, really- and peaked around a corner, stopping when he saw Bruce and Alfred, standing in front of an old grandfather clock.

“You should be upstairs,” Alfred said saying, as Bruce was- what was he doing to the clock? He was reaching around the side, hands not visible. “You don’t need to answer this. Or a simple call would suffice.”

“They don’t just throw the signal up for no reason. I have to go.” Just then, there was a _hiss_ a rush of air as if a seal was broken, and the clock was moving aside, exposing a doorway. Alfred had stepped back, turning away from Bruce, looking obviously frustrated, and walked away. Jack, in a brief moment of panic, pressed his back to the wall, holding his breath as Alfred moved past him, waiting until he was gone to look back.

Bruce was gone. The clock had returned to its original position. It was just a boring hallway.

Jack moved down it quickly, reaching out to brace himself against the clock as his head spun suddenly. He didn’t know what was _wrong_ with him, why it felt like his body was trying to shut down- but he didn’t have time for it. Something was wrong here, something wasn’t as it should be, and he was dead set now on knowing what.

He felt along the side of the clock, found a little pad, as if for a security system. He flipped the cover up, staring at the numbers- having no idea what they would possibly be.

He leaned closer, studying them- and then say it, faintly, in the bare light. The fact that a few buttons had a slight wet smudge to them- condensation from the glass Bruce had given him, transferred to the buttons. Sucking on his tongue, he pushed them in what seemed like the order from wettest to driest, holding his breath, waiting for some sort of alarm to scream because he had gotten it wrong.

Instead there was silence, then that hiss as the seal broke, and the clock suddenly moved away from him, revealing the doorway. Jack stared at the darkness for a moment, before he slipped inside, getting only a few steps down before the clock closed behind him.

He really hoped it didn’t lead to a dead end.

He kept one hand on the wall as he moved, seeing only the fainest of lights down the stairs. A small glowing light- a doorway, an elevator once he was close enough to make out shapes. He hit the button, slipping in- and he only an arrow to hit. No floors, just an up or a down.

He pressed down.

The ride was quiet, quick, and when the movement stopped and the doors opened, Jack felt like he was in a different world. The room was dark, wide open, light be computer screens and specific spotlights, but filled with so many shadows he could feel his skin crawling with them.

_What the hell_. He took a step off the elevator, the floor freezing under his bare feet, nearly being knocked over by the cool air, the smell of rock and water and ever running electronics. Of Kevlar. Of something so familiar, it had his gut in knots.

_No_.

He took a step towards a small table, lined with all sorts of tiny gadgets, fingers tracing the shape of a Batarang, feeling the smooth, cool metal beneath his finger tips.

_It can’t be_.

“Alfred.” The voice called from around a corner in the large room, and then Bruce was emerging- no, not Bruce, it couldn’t be, not in that suit, not in the suit that had haunted his dreams for so many years, now with that cape flowing behind him like the shadows themselves in the room.

But it was Bruce. The mask was gone, held in his hand.

He was staring at the big bad Bat. And the man whom he had fallen for, these past weeks. He was staring at a hybrid of his dreams and his nightmares, and suddenly reality was crashing in around Jack, cutting him with its sharp glass edges, searing into old scars to create fresh wounds.

“Jack.” Bruce’s voice had a tremble to it, his eyes wide. “What-“

Jack pulled his hand back from the Batarang, clutching it to himself. He felt dizzy again, tried to take a step towards Bruce and nearly stumbled, reaching out to clutch at the table for support.

“You shouldn’t be down here.” Bruce moved towards him, hands reaching for his arms to steady him- and those _gloves_ , the Bat and Bruce all in one, Bruce’s touch, the feeling of Batman’s kevlar, Jack was shaking, unable to see straight. “Fucking hell, you shouldn’t-“

“It was always _you_.” Jack stared up at him, with blown our pupils. “Always you. Always has been. That’s why you took me in. That’s why...all of this...everything.” Bruce tried to pull his arms back, but he couldn’t. “You did it to keep your fucking little city safe from _me_.”

“Jack, wait.” Bruce kept his grip firm, pulling Jack up straighter. “Stop talking. Stop thinking. You’re not yourself right now.” He pulled him in, crashed the lithe man against the hard chest of his suit. It didn’t feel like it used to, in that moment. It felt _wrong_. “You should be sleeping. I watched you drink it.”

_Should be sleeping_? Jack looked up at Bruce, confused, half his brain feeling fuzzy, cotton filled. “What are you talking about?”

_I watched you drink it_.

The water.

And in that moment, Jack’s brain went to fire. Every time he had woken up sick, every moment he had felt his body betraying him over the past days, it had always been on those nights where Bruce gave him that little thoughtful gift, set him to bed like a child.

“What _the fuck did you put in me_?” Jack struggled, ripped free form Bruce, taking a few trembling steps back.

“Just for you to sleep-“

“What the fuck did you put in me!” Jack was screaming now, his voice wavering, his eyes wild. His hands clutched into fists, nails digging into his palms, stinging as they broke skin. Bruce had done it, Bruce had done it to him. Bruce had _drugged him_.

“It was just a tranquilizer. A sedative. So you wouldn’t wake up and notice I was gone.”

Jack stared at him. Then, bearing his teeth, he reached over for the table, grabbed the Batarang and hurled it at Bruce. He jerked to the side, the blade missing him and landing off somewhere in the distance, clattering on the floor.

“How _dare_ you!” Jack screamed. “How dare you...you...you know _me_. You’ve read what the drugs to do me. _You know me Bruce_!” He shook his head, couldn’t believe this was happening. “I let you see me Bruce, into me. I let you _have me_.” He reached up, tugging at his blond curls.

He’d given everything to Bruce. He’d given him his secrets, his face, every freckle on his body, every scar. He’d given him his _name_. He had let a part of him atrophy inside his gut, so he could be something Bruce wanted.

He’d killed himself for this name. He’d killed the Joker for the man who wanted him dead, all these years. He’d let Batman win.

He’d let himself be utterly _used_.

“Jack, just wait-“

“Don’t, fucking _don’t_!” Jack turned, ran for the elevator, stumbling into the doors and ending up on his knees, so dizzy he was sure he’d be sick. He hit the button before Bruce got to him, and suddenly he was being taken up, back to the dark stairs. He nearly crawled up them, unable to hold his balance, gracing himself with his hands, feeling around in the dark for whatever might open back up to the Manor.

He found a button, smooth, that lit up green when he pressed it, and the smells of the cave gave way to the smells of the manor. He threw himself onto the floor, coughing, wondering how strong the sedative Bruce had given him was, if he was such a mess already. How much water had he drunk? He couldn’t remember.

It didn’t matter. All he knew was that he needed to get out of here. He needed to be away from this. The shadows along the wall were too much, now that he had let them under his skin. Every nightmare of Bruce’s that he had welcomed earlier, every bit of trauma that he wanted to suckle until he tasted their marrow, they reared their ugly heads, clawing at him. Wanting him. Wanting to devour him until there was nothing but his screams to echo off the hallways.

He pushed himself up, stumbling out of the hallway, until he was at the front door. He fought with the locks, throwing it open, stumbling and falling onto the steps outside. The air had grown cold, too cold, and he shivered, smelled rain in the air.

Jack forced himself up, forced himself to move, his limbs feeling desperately far from his core. Each step took concentration, concentration that he didn’t have, that was rooted back on seeing Bruce in that suit, in knowing that this, this whole ordeal, it had had an end. A set end, where the Joker was dead, and Jack- he was left in the pieces, the sharp shards of painted glass.

He moved around the manor, into the trees, the sweet thickness that gave him coverage. And he moved, nonstop, no matter what his body wanted to do, no matter the sounds he heard behind him-

No matter how badly his heart wanted to to turn around, to fall back into Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all knew it was coming...


	14. Chapter 14

Bruce had watched the elevator disappear, hadn’t gotten in the moment it came down. The shock was settling in, over his bones, over what Jack had seen.

That he knew the truth.

And it was just as devastating as Bruce had predicted.

When he did ride back up to the manor and emerge, Jack was gone- the front door was left open. He ran his hand along its edges, then, gritting his teeth, took off into the night, in full costume except for his mask. “Jack!” he yelled, the name echoing around in the dark around him.

He didn’t even know where to look. Where to start. The land was vast, and he couldn’t even _see_ him. Bruce tore off towards the trees, pushing past branches, calling out Jack’s name until his voice was hoarse, until the air was too cold and wet and stung his lungs. Until the night smelled of rain, and finally delivered, and Bruce was soaked, walking alone in circles.

When he finally emerged, Alfred was standing, holding out an umbrella, the rain hitting his own back as he tried to hold it over Bruce. “Sir-“

“He’s gone, Alfred. He’s. He’s fucking gone.” Bruce reached a hand up, pushing back through his wet hair. “You were right. I fucked up.”

Alfred didn’t smile. He placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, reassuring. “And what is our next step, sir. Shall we...call for some assistance?”

“We can’t call the cops,” Bruce said, “How the fuck would I explain this. And that would just...put more stress on Jack. No. No one has to know he’s gone. I’ll change and go out looking for him.” Alfred followed Bruce towards the house, shaking his head.

“Sir, if I may- perhaps you _shouldn’t_. I’m sure that Master Jack will not want to see you at this moment.”

“So what? I sit here and do fucking nothing?” Bruce had stepped out from under the umbrella now, was looking wild.

“No,” Alfred said, “No. You get some rest, and I will go out looking for him.”

*

Jack had cut through land he didn’t know, cross roads in the dead of night with the rain pounding down into his bones. Rocks had cut at the bare flats of his feet, scrapes had appeared at his ankles, but he walked. He walked until he was so far away from the Manor that is was a dream of delirium, something he could have made up, dreamt up on one toxic medication rush in the asylum.

Finally, when dirt and rocks gave way to pavement, broken up streets, he knew he was _home_. Jack wrapped his arms around his soaked frame, making his way down the narrows, thinking back to times before in his head, other nights then the cross fire had been heavy, when it had been important to split.

A designated meeting spot, a hidden safe house. Long unused. But Jack had never been one to get rid of a possible haven, not in this city. He slipped into the back alleyway, tearing out the plastic covering of a broken window. He hoisted himself up, snagging his tshirt and tearing it on the way in, cutting his hands, one slice around his forearm- but then he was inside, out of the frigid spring rain.

He coughed, assaulted by dust. The building had been an old apartment complex, had been condemned a good half a dozen times, and yet it still stood. There were always plans to rework the Narrows, but so often they fell through. Unless Bruce Wayne backed them.

He pushed himself up, stumbling towards the door that led to the stairwell, pushing the old, creaky door open. Down he went, down to the basement, a large room sanctioned off by metal fencing, originally so that each tenant had a space. He walked among these spaces, in the dark, arms out stretched so his fingers could run along the metal chain doors, until one rattled free. He turned to it, slipped inside the unlocked space, fumbling around until he found an old flashlight. He clicked it on, smacked it against his palm, and the light flickered on, dim and stale yellow, but enough.

There wasn’t much of anything left here. A few boxes that hid clothing, various lights and knives. What he was most concerned about was the dusty old blankets in a heap, a pillow that smelled of mildew. He didn’t care. His body ached, he was chilled to the very marrow of his bones, and he still felt the effects of the drug in his system. He wanted to sleep. He didn’t care much where.

He stripped of his torn, wet shirt, hid soaked jeans, laid nearly naked, wrapped up in the dusty blanket, letting his head fall to the pillow. Curled up on himself, he faded into nothing, tried desperately to disappear into the dark of the room, the flashlight flickering out as the battery died pitifully, leaving him absolutely alone.

*

Bruce didn’t sleep. He lay restless, he tossed, turned, fell into a half slumber that couldn’t possibly count. At some point, just as the sun was appearing, he gave up, showered, dressed, and made his way downstairs quickly. Alfred was there, putting on a pot of coffee, working his jacket off. It was still wet.

“Anything?” A solemn shake of his head, and Bruce frowned. “We both know where we went.”

“You can’t expect to search all of Gotham on your own, sir.”

“I can. And I will.” Bruce ignored the coffee, heading for the door. “Please stay here, in case he...in case he comes back.”

Alfred watched him go, having no intention of leaving, should Jack appear. He wanted him home just as badly as Bruce.

*

It was daylight when Jack reemerged. He had found more civilian style clothing in the boxes- no purple suit now, no flashy threads. Just jeans and a black t-shirt and a pair of shoes his aching feet were thankful for.

He kept his hair, tangled curls still damp in a few places, fall into his face, over his cheeks, and walked with his head down. He needed to get across the city, to Arkham- the last place he truly wanted to go, but also the one place he knew he _needed to be_ , if only for a brief moment.

He’d had some money hidden down in the basement, not much, but enough to cover bus fare around the city. He was glad no one looked at him, that he seemed invisible. He had never wanted to be invisible before, not like this. Less then twelve hours ago, he had been the center of so much attention, flashy and grinning hooked to Bruce’s arm-

_Stop it._ He bit his lip, sucked on it, cursed himself. Don’t think of that Bat-bastard right now. Later, maybe. But not _yet_.

When he finally reached Arkham, he slipped into an older habit of his- breaking into the hospital. Well, perhaps his experience was breaking out, but breaking in was just as easy. Down to one of the old archive rooms, firing up the ancient computer kept in there, and scrolling through the employee files. He heard commotion outside of the room, but never once did anyone even try to enter- no one really cared about anything in here. It was simply the safest place for him to access a computer hooked into the asylum’s network, where no one would disturb him.

It took some time, but he found her face, one he recognized, and then he was out, grabbing a white coat that was hanging on a hook by one of the older nurses station, almost always vacant in this old ward, as it was understaffed, and slipped into it. That was all it took to keep eyes off him for a few seconds, at least. That little white bubble.

Up the elevator, to the offices of the many doctors who appeared at the asylum only part time. Her name was scribbled on a door with two others, and he took it on faith that she would be there, and not one of the strangers.

He didn’t knock. He opened the door, found a small room cramped with three desks, and she sitting there, on a laptop, to the right. Jack closed the door forcefully, and the doctor looked up, the one who had graced him those few times at the Manor, the stranger whose name he would forget the moment she was gone.

The link he needed.

“Don’t play coy,” he said, walking towards her, staring directly into her, so she could see his wild eyes, his scars as they stretched out from his mouth. “And don’t lie to me. I need one thing from you, and one thing only.” She was staring at him, and whatever cockiness she had boasted at the manor seemed to be gone. Perhaps that had been an act. He licked his lips, giving her a wild grin, as he demanded, “Take me to Harley.”

*

Bruce didn’t go into the city- not yet. Part of him held some sort of strange faith that Jack hadn’t gone that far- even when he knew it was absurd. Gotham was Jack’s home, it had been their _courting grounds_. But he was praying, praying to any deity that would listen, that Jack hadn’t fallen back into the Joker, that he was clinging to himself and to Bruce, and might have kept around the grounds.

But an hour of driving the roads all around Wayne Manor gave Bruce nothing, and he was back, storming into the house and heading for the coffee, despite his shaking hands. Alfred was freshly dressed, but otherwise didn’t look as if he had rested a moment. The kitchen was rather spotless, though.

Stress cleaning. Bruce knew they were in deep if Alfred felt the need to express his discomfort.

He took his coffee and headed upstairs, into Jack’s room. He knew he could scale all of Gotham, but it would take _time_. So much time. Time he didn’t have. It would be pure luck if he were to find Jack if he had to go about it that way, unless the man wanted to be found.

And if he wanted to be found, Bruce knew he was lost.

He dind’t expect to find much of anything in Jack’s room. As of late, he was rarely in here. But still, he walked among the rooms, lingering at the large window the man used to sit at, stare at out the world outside. He’d liked the view.

Bruce felt his chest tighten. Oh, he had fucked up royally.

He set his coffee down, leaning against Jack’s desk, his body aching from the tension. That old medical book Bruce had given him was out on the desk, and he reached for it, touching the cover. He had trusted Jack with material that could have easily gone against his therapy- and Jack had not used it for any such purposes. Bruce’s trust had been proven.

And what had he done? Gone and fucked Jack in a way that had felt so raw, so liberating- like he wasn’t simply himself, like he was Batman as well, like he was all the demons that had ever plagued him, and he had poured them into Jack, into his trembling body. And his lover had taken them, taken each like a gift.

Even Bruce knew whatever it had been, it had been different. Even he felt strange after. And Jack? He could see it, in those eyes, obvious in the way Jack asked him to come to bed. He needed Bruce to bring him down from it. He _needed_ Bruce to show him what was beyond those demons-

And Bruce had gone and _left_

“Fucking idiot,” Bruce mumbled to himself, hating himself, seeing it now. Alfred had been right, dammit he had been the whole time. Drugging Jack was the stupidest thing he could have done- and he should have known. He knew his history, knew about his sensory issues, his distaste about medication. It wasn’t only in his files, he had spewed venomous words about it plenty of nights, on rooftops. The medical cocktails they fed him at Arkham, what they _did_ to him.

And he’d done it anyway. Because nothing was more important then Batman.

Maybe Bruce was the one that was truly sick in the head.

He opened the cover of the book, flipping pages, frowning when he noticed there seemed to be a tiny gap, towards the center. He opened to that page, found a piece of paper, obviously folded a few times before, handwritten with neat, curving letters.

It took barely seconds to read, and then Bruce was grabbing it, running from the room and bounding down the stairs, screaming for Alfred.

*

Bruce was sure he didn’t look his best when he walked into Arkham, _briskly walked_ , even though he wanted to run. The note was crumpled in his pocket. His only clue as to where Jack could be going.

Back to the one person who he knew would drive the Joker from his core, give him the second birth the clown needed.

“Mr. Wayne,” the nurse at the front desk said, smiling at him. “What a surprise! Are you here alone?”

“I am,” he said, trying to smile. “Jack is...sleeping off the evening.” The woman smiled.

“I saw pictures. You were all over the news, though I thought the headlines were a bit ludicrous. Calling him the Joker. Is that the name he has chosen, then? I like it.” She seemed overly sweet, and Bruce felt his chest clenching up over it. There were people who weren’t looking at them as if this had been one big spectacle- there were people who had faith that Bruce had actually helped this man, and that his affections were true.

They were. They were so true, so real, and that hurt Bruce. Because if it had all been a lie, and it had come to this, it would all be calculated damage. He’d simply have to clean up the mess. But no, he hadn’t been ready for the ache in his whole existence over Jack breaking. Leaving.

But even worse? His name. It wasn’t one he had chosen, it was _his_. It was his very existence, before the Joker, before Bruce had been the one to lose him in that vat of acid. Before the world has simply been too much, or not enough. Jack wasn’t something he had chosen for Bruce, to make the whole ordeal _neater_ for the media. Jack was who he was, who no one knew.

“He looked happy, Mr. Wayne,” she continued, “That was...refreshing. It’s a wonder what you’ve done. But I’m so sorry, I’m rambling. What can I help you with?”

“The doctor that came to my home, to see Jack a few times. I-I need to see her.” The nurse’s look turned to concern.

“Is everything alright?”

Everything was the furthest from alright it could possibly be. “Yes. I’d just like to talk to her. I’m a little curious about their sessions. I just want to make sure, if she goes public with anything outside of academia, that it’s not...damaging to Jack’s recovery.”

She seemed relieved at that, and turned to her computer, typing quickly. “Sorry, I don’t know her name,” the nurse was saying, “I’ll just look up who has worked with Jack. I swear, he’s got his own portion of the network here.” It took a moment before she was smiling, grabbing the desk phone and calling up to the woman’s office. She tapped her fingers as they waited, then hung up the phone, looking back at Bruce. “I’m sorry Mr. Wayne, she’s not answering. Her schedule says she is supposed to be in today. I can give you her office number if you’d like to go up.”

“That would be great.” She wrote it down, passing the note to Bruce, who took it between slightly trembling fingers. He was sure she noticed, by the drop in her eyes- but she kept silent on the manner, and Bruce was quick to head for the elevator.

He found the office and knocked, even though he didn’t have the patience for it. A moment of silence and he opened the door, rushing in-

But it was empty.

Bruce balled his hands into fists, crossing the room to the desk that looked as if it was last occupied, found a small name tag, a laptop left open. Not even turned off. He turned it around, saw she had been writing up a report on another patient. Frowning, Bruce wondered where the hell she could have gone, so quickly.

Except, he knew where. Or well, to who.

She was taking Jack to Harley. And with each passing second, Bruce was sure Jack was even more lost.

*

Sneaking out of Arkham hadn’t been hard- Jack could have broken the two of them out if he needed to, but instead he ditched the coat, and she ditched hers, and they walked out as if they were two colleagues, off to lunch. Jack wanted to watch her, as they moved, but he needed to keep his wits about for everything else. Everyone else was the threat now- recognizing him. He didn’t need word getting back to Bruce.

Once in her car, and on the road, Jack took the time to glance over at her. He didn’t care about her actual appearance, he was more interested in studying the lines of her face, wanted to see the eyes she had quickly hid behind sunglasses. Wanted to read her, like a map, like a novel. It was a far more honest approach to knowing someone then actually _listening_ to the lies their mouth could spew.

“I should have known Harley would have an in at the hospital,” he said, watching to see if her mouth would react, twist in any way. “What’s my little sugar princess got on you, sweetheart?”

Her mouth twitched. Good. He was at least being heard.

“Dr. Quinzel doesn’t have anything on me,” she finally said, “She’s simply...she’s a genius. I idolized her while I was working through school. I wanted to meet her. Someone who got to work so closely with Gotham’s most terrifying- someone who could hold her own in a male dominated world like Arkham? She’s a dream.” She was smiling now. “Doesn’t matter to me that she might not be on the _nicest_ side of the law right now. To me, she’s still a doctor. She’s still studying everything. Her methods are just _different_.”

Jack stared at her. That was the last answer he expected. And, if he was honest, he didn’t think she was lying.

“I was never quiet about it,” the woman offered, “I wrote a paper on _her_. She must have read it, because she approached me, before your transfer. Said she could get me a ticket in to talk to you directly, to get to pick at one of the most amazing minds in Gotham. Said it’d really boost my career, to get to say that I worked with the Joker, even if it was only briefly. All I had to do was feed her whatever information I got. What you were like. What the manor was like. All I had to do, was be ready in case you decided you’d had enough playtime with Bruce Wayne.”

So, she had been watching him the whole time. If anything, he was rather impressed.

“She still has clearance in most of the systems in the Arkham network. With enough time, that is. She knows the system well. Maybe she called in a favor as well to make it happen so fast, but suddenly my name was listed as your first doctor. They were going to shift us out, phases of a few visits. I think the higher ups were afraid that anyone spending too much time with you outside a controlled environment was going to be compromised. But the list should have all been senior doctors, now a fledgling like me.”

Jack was sure he knew who Harley had called a favor in to. Mentally, he made a note to ask dear old Eddy just who close he’d been with his darling Harley lately. Not that he was jealous- oh, no no no no _no_ , he simply liked to know these things. Though it seemed Harley was far from being at the point of wanting to do away with him.

When she eventually reached that point, if she was driven to it, that was when he would truly be afraid of her. Because he didn’t doubt she could pull it off.

They had made their way to a nicer part of Gotham, houses bunched together in old brick, nearly side by side. You could open a window and shake hands with your neighbor.

“Did you take a wrong turn?” The woman shook her head, pulling up to the curb and parking the car. She pointed across his lap, to one house, number 103.

“All you have to do is go up and ring the bell. I can’t go with you. I can’t be seen this close, just in case anything is linked together.” Jack glanced from the house back to her, and she smiled. “This is counter productive to what Dr. Quinzel is doing- but I do hope I get to pick your brain again, soon.”

Jack frowned, but it didn’t seem to scare her. He opened the door, stepping out, walking quickly up to the house. There were _people_ out, this was insane, asinine-

He rang the bell, stuffing his hand sin his pockets, trying to look casual, discrete. There were footsteps, then the door opening-

It was _her_. Sure, with her hair in a messy knot against the side of her neck, dressed casual in jeans, without the war paint around her eyes, it would have been hard, almost impossible for anyone to know- but Jack _always_ knew.

She stared at him for a minute, pretty eyes going wide, before her perfect lips broke into a grin and she was reaching for him, grabbing his arms, pulling his hands from his pockets and dragging him inside. “Puddin’!” she yelled, turning him so she could slam the door with her hip, before throwing her arms around him, pressing up against him like a puzzle piece.

He couldn’t help it. Jack locked his arms around her, clutched her tightly, pressed his face into the knot of her hair and inhaled, smelled sugar and cinnamon. He could have stayed like that, wanted to, but she was pushing him back, looking him over. Her smile faded away, turned to a frown.

“Darlin’, what did that Mr. Wayne do ta-ya?” Jack said nothing, reaching up to brush a few stray hairs away from her face.

“Let’s not talk on it, Harley,” he said, offering her up a smile, one dragged up from the dregs of his gut, one with razors along the edges. One that sent a sweet, terrifying chill down her spine.

“Whatever you want, Mr. J,” she offered, reaching up and taking his hand. “It’s just good ‘ta have ya back.”

*

Bruce had no leads. All he had was a city to drive around, streets that all washed away to faded gray, blended into each other. He had not a hint as to where Jack was, what was happening to him. He didn’t know what to do with himself, other then drive.

Finally, towards evening, he returned to the Manor, knowing there was only one option, one way to find Jack.

He did not seek out Alfred. He went directly down to the cave. He couldn’t go out yet, not in the light, but the moment it was dark, he would be ready. He was half suited up by the time Alfred came down, bearing nothing- no coffee, no tea, only his mouth set in a disapproving line.

“No news then, sir?”

“No.” Bruce was sitting by his large, main computer, his cape thrown over the back of his chair, gloves and belt on the table next to him. He was holding his cowl, turning it in the low light, looking at it. “The lead was worthless. She wasn’t there. Nor was she there when I called back to check, before I came back. I have no idea where he is.”

“So what is your plan then?” Bruce glanced up, his eyes tired.

“I’m going to let him tell me where he is.”

Alfred was quiet for a moment. “So, that’s it then?” Bruce looked confused, and Alfred crossed the room, staring at him, disapprovingly. “This is the end of it. You worked so hard to keep this part of yourself from him, Master Bruce, and now that this secrecy has destroyed whatever you had with that young man, you’re going to face him as the beast? You’re going to look him in his eyes not as Bruce Wayne, but as Batman.”

“He’ll come out for Batman-“

“He came out for Bruce Wayne, sir. He _stayed_ for Bruce Wayne. He would have continued to stay for you, sir. I truly believe it. Had you not gotten us into this mess.” Bruce set his mask down, standing up, feeling as if he needed to be defensive suddenly, as if he needed to hide behind his muscle and bone, because Alfred’s words were far too correct.

“You don’t need to-“

“I _do_ , sir. Because if I do not remind you of how this mess is entirely your fault, there is no hope of fixing it. That man loved you, Master Bruce. He thought the world of you. He left behind whatever part of himself you didn’t approve of, just so you would look at him. And while I never thought I would have any sort of affection for the man you knew as the Joker, I can safely say I have fond feelings for Master Jack. He was good for you, sir.”

Bruce didn’t say anything for a moment. “I have to be Bat-“

Bruce was cut off when there was a sharp sting on his cheek, his jawbone, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing within the cave. Alfred’s hand had more force then one would think, and Bruce’s head turned with it, his eyes wide.

“You do not _have_ to be Batman. You choose to, sir. I know you are doing what you think is best for Gotham- but you could do so much as yourself, as Bruce Wayne. You could have done so much with Jack by your side. And if you are Batman, you are condemning him to never be well, sir. You are brithing the Joker for a _second_ time.” Alfred turned, walking briskly away, and Bruce called out to him, needing him here, not wanting to sit alone with his words.

“Wait-“

“I will not watch you kill the only good that has come into your life, sir,” he said, turning as the elevator doors opened. “But should you manage to save Jack’s life, I will be here to mend your injuries. But do not expect me to watch you damn him to a fate of madness. And do not expect me to watch your own descent with no reaction.”

And then he was gone, back up to the manor, and Bruce- Bruce was alone.

*

Harley’s little suburbia facade was better then Jack thought. The house was small, cozy- and, form the outside, utterly dull. The inside seemed it too, if you didn’t know where to look. The basement was a riot, and he had clapped his arm around her shoulder in praise, an array of weapons, explosives, anything she could need.

“The great thing is,” she pointed out, guiding him upstairs, “Is that everyone is wrapped up in themselves here, they haven’t thought ‘ta ask who I am. I’ve got fake ID, fake papers. I could fade into normalcy, if I wanted to. And if not, well, this safe house is expendable. They all are.” She was smiling, proud of herself, and Jack slipped his hand around her waist once they were off the stairs, squeezing.

“I always knew you had this city in the palm of your hand, princess,” he teased, “I’m proud of you.”

And he was. And at the same time, he was terrified. Because Harley was straddling such a perfect line- so like the one he had, he realized. She had it in her, the possibility to go off like a loaded gun, but she could wear a mask so no one knew the ticking time bomb she was. The only difference, was that he had begun to embrace the mask with Bruce. He had forgotten how to take it off.

“You need to get some rest,” she said, as they walked down the hallway, “You look pretty hellish, Puddin’. Maybe sleep for a few days.”

They had stopped in front of a door, and Jack was shaking his head. He opened it, found a quaint little bedroom, and stepped inside.

“No,” he said, slipping his hands back into his pockets. “No, I won’t be here that long, Harley. I have things that need to be done.” She stared at him, and the smile in her eyes disappeared, her mouth retaining it- but it was fake. “There’s someone I need to see.”

He almost hurt, seeing the fake smile disappear then too. “’Course Mr. J,” she said, turning away from him, walking to a closet door and opening it. “I...I figured when ya did show up, it wouldn’t be for long. I know you’re a busy man ‘an all.” She was rummaging inside, coming back holding an arm full of clothing, all neatly on a hanger, under a plastic slip. “I’ve been keepin’ this ready for ya.”

She laid the suit out on the bed, dark purple pinstripes, tightly cut, flashy and absolutely _perfect_. Jack glanced at it, then back at her, and took the few steps to her, pulling her into his arms. She didn’t react, not until his hand was stroking her spine.

“You’re perfect, sugar,” he whispered, knowing he was hurting her. He hurt her so much, and yet she never left. He deserved a lot of glass to the face for it, deserved to have his scars reopened. And he was seeing it, now. “And you’re going to run Gotham like a _star_.”

She looked up at him, but didn’t speak. Jack didn’t know what sort of love she still harbored for him, or if she clung to him because he was still some sort of symbol she wanted, craved. Or if she was still endlessly curious about the workings of his mind.

Or a sick, poisonous cocktail of all three.

But either way, in this moment, he wished she could hate him. Just like he wished he could hate Bruce.

*

She left him to himself, then. He wasn’t sure if she left the room, the floor, the house, but she left him. And he needed it, needed to be alone as he stripped from the tshirt that smelled of dust, the jeans that had faded so thin in places. Stripped down until he was completely naked, all skin and scars and bone.

He took his time, with each piece of the suit. The green shirt that he buttoned slowly, the orange checkered waist coat, over the purple pinstripe tie- matching the rest of the suit. She had gone all out. He would go out in a blaze of glory, all because of her.

The cuff links were pure gold, a simple _Ha_ against each wrist that had him smiling. Once he was dressed, he left the bedroom, down the hallway, to the small bathroom, flicking on the light and looking at himself in the mirror.

His curls were tussled, messy, pure blond. He could have asked her, she would have gotten him dye, would have done it for him. Like days in the past, sitting with her gloves hands moving against his scalp, bits of color on his cheeks, her wrists. She used to tease him that he should stay blonde, _so they could be twins_.

He didn’t want Harley to be his twin. She didn’t deserve that sort of hell. He wanted something more for her, for her to become something higher then he ever could.

Her medicine cabinet revealed what he wanted. His hand hovered over her white face paint, then avoided it, taking up her red lipstick, her eye shadows. His already had bags under his eyes, and chose instead of filling them in to simply line his eyes, until the green stood out like the acid of his birth. The lipstick, he took his time with, careful to fill in over the pink, not to drag it out onto his skin. He didn’t want that scarlet smile.

He wasn’t looking for garish. He was looking for _beautiful_. This was a new war, a one night stand sort of fight, and he needed to be the ting of haunting dreams. He couldn’t be the same Joker he had been before. That Joker was dead, he knew it, knew it in his heart. But this Joker, the one staring back at him, with scars unhidden, with freckles dusting his nose and cheeks, with pretty eyes and a sad, gorgeous mouth. This Joker would be his last, his true, perfect form.

It was getting dark, as he made his way downstairs. Harley was there, sitting at a small kitchen table, pushing a phone around, still dressed like a civilian. When she saw him, she smiled, that sad sort, and stood up, walking over slowly.

“You look good, Puddin’,” she whispered, and he took her hands, squeezing them.

“Thank you,” he offered, his own smile rather sad. “For everything, Harley.” She looked away, up, as if trying to fight back some sort of tears- and if she cried, he knew he would be utterly undone. She was his friend in this madness, one of only two people in this whole forsaken city who had truly wanted to see him.

And the other, the bat-lover, he had seen too much.

“What’d that rich boy to ‘ta ya, makin’ you all nice.” She looked back, smiling her sad smile. “Don’t yell me he was good ‘ta ya, Puddin’.”

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling. Inhaling and remembering Bruce’s scent, his cologne, the feel of being pressed to his chest, the sweetness in hiding in his arms. The carelessness, utter comfort, of stretching out along him. The feeling of home in a single person’s eyes.

“He was,” he finally said, “To a point, he was.”

He opened his eyes, and Harley nodded. Carefully, she pulled her hands back, folding up on herself. Alone, again, but that was when she was the best, Joker thought. When she didn’t have anyone else to drag her down. When he wasn’t a weight around her ankle.

“If ya ever change your mind,” she whispered, “Ya can always find me, Puddin’. Whether you’re my J or,” she paused, unfolding to reach up, her finger tips dusting along the freckles on his face. “Or anyone else.”

She didn’t say his name. He wanted to thank her for it. Joker wasn’t sure he could handle it, in that moment.

Jack had to go away. Jack had to go far away, or he would never make it out of this alive.

Then again, he didn’t plan to, regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I had gotten even more Harley into this fic then I did. I do love her so much.


	15. Chapter 15

It was dark as Bruce sped through the streets of Gotham, clutching onto his bike. He had hoped it would be obvious where Jack was. Well, obvious to him. He didn’t want anyone to catch word that he might have relapsed- he thought might with a bitter tinge to it, because maybe there was hope that he was still _Jack_ and he was somewhere in this city, and all Bruce had to do was find him. Scoop him up and listen to some cliche prince charming joke, and kiss those freckles. And it would be alright.

Those were the lies he fed himself, to keep from falling utterly into his own defeat.

He killed the engine of his bike outside the ACE Chemical factory, fenced off and vacant. He had been working to have it completely torn down, rebuilt into something useful. He was sure Jack would have plenty to say on that, knowing now that the Bruce Wayne that wanted to demolish the place of his birth was also the Batman who had forced it upon him.

The inside was vacant, and Bruce allowed himself to think that maybe he wouldn’t be here. Maybe he would be somewhere else, anywhere else. Just not here. Not where it all began so long ago.

But Bruce knew it was a lie. He would be here, somewhere. He knew the Joker. Knew him through and through, now knew the man beneath the paint. He would be here. He would always be here.

He let himself onto the roof, the air chilled, smelling of rain. Another spring night rain coming. As if the sky could weep for him. Weep the tears he would never allow himself, over this whole mess.

The door slammed behind him, and Bruce stared out at the large expanse of the room, the cold concrete, dropping off into nothing far in the distance. He wasn’t there, wasn’t standing there with his arms out stretched. No jokes, no laughter, nothing.

That is, nothing until the foot steps behind him, echoing off into the night. Bruce spun on his heel, watched the shadows move like demons, stalk with a sway in their hips, like they could hear a rhythm he could not.

And when they gave, allowing sweet golden moonlight, Bruce knew he had lost.

Joker’s painted mouth wasn’t smiling, not like Bruce expected, it was sullen, serious, but those eyes- they ate right into his soul, through the mask, through his skull. They were ethereal in this light, glowing as if they were seperate from his body, the pupils tiny despite the lack of light. Crazy in a beautiful sense.

“I had hoped it wouldn’t be here,” Bruce admitted, keeping his body tense as Joker continued towards him. He could see the freckles on his face still, the lack of white paint almost more jarring then if it had been used. Because there were bits of Jack still there, whispers in those freckles, in his blond curls.

“Where else would we, ah, end up, _Bats_?” He threw his arms out, finally smiling, all white teeth and the bright tear of scarlet his mouth had become. Bruce’s heart was thudding.

Anywhere but here.

“This is the _perrrfect_ spot, dollface. It always, ah, was.” He moved closer, reaching out, letting his finger run along Bruce’s chest, over the Bat symbol. “You watched me fall here, lambchop. You helped _create_ me. It seemed only, ah, _fitting_ to come back for my rebirth- considering that is _your_ fault as well.”

His eyes were hard, cold, and Bruce felt his insides turning to ice.

“This doesn’t have to be a rebirth,” he whispered, wanting to grab that hand as it left his chest. “Jack, you don’t have to-“

“No!” His voice boomed in the silence, and Bruce lost his breath. “ _No_. You don’t get to talk about him. You lost that right.”

“I’m talking about you, Jack.” The Joker glared, daggers, hard steel that fit directly between each of Bruce’s ribs.

“Jack is _dead_ , Batsy. You killed him. You pulled him out and then _you killed him_. All that’s left is _me_.” He spun, once, arms outstretched. “The second coming! Am I the way you pictured your _Messiah_ , Bruce?”

His name on the Joker’s tongue had Bruce shivering.

“Talk to me,” Bruce finally forced out, his throat tight. “Not here. Not with all...this. Talk to me like you used to. Come back to the Manor-“

“Ah ah ah, sorry sugar, but I’m a _very busy man_ , and I simply _can’t_ be making house calls. Besides, if I leave, I’ll miss the _fireworks_.”

_Fireworks? Oh no..._

“What did you do?” Bruce’s voice went guttural, and the Joker started laughing.

“Oh, now _that’s_ it. That’s my big bad Bat! Finally come out to play! What did I _dooo_? Why, I simply lined up some _enter-tain-ment_ for the evening, dollface. A couple lights, a few explosions, things to remind us of the _good old days_.” Bruce glared at him, and the Joker pressed his hands to his own chest, mocking innocence. “See, sometime soon, oh say, twenty minutes from now? The skyline is going to _light up_. Building all over the city.”

“Impossible, you’ve been-“

“Back in the city for, what, less then 24 hours? Oh I know, I do work fast darling. But I simply cannot come back to Gotham and not give the _show_ I always promise. I am, after all, a man of my word!” He grinned, wild, terrifying, gorgeous. “But you know, Brucie-Bat, you can stop it all.”

“ _How_?”

“I’ve got an, ah, emergency fail safe trigger, you _seeee_. Somewhere on me.” He patted his jacket. “All you have to do, is, ah, beak your one rule, Batsy-boy. And you’ll find it.” Bruce swore the air around them went still, utterly silent. _No. Don’t say it_. “You can save _all of Gotham_ Bats! All you have to do is _kill me_.”

Then he lunged, threw himself at Bruce, grabbing at his shoulders and spinning him, nearly throwing him off balance. Bruce reached for his arms, to steady them, but got a shoulder to his jaw, felt his teeth _click_ together. The Joker was laughing, pushing himself off of Bruce to circle him as he regained his senses, lunging at his back now, grabbing fistfuls of his cape and tugging, with all his weight. Bruce stumbled, gritting his teeth and turning, fist raised, connecting with the clown’s jaw.

He stumbled back, his laughter cutting off. When he had his balance he shook his head, shaking off the pain, and grinned at Bruce. “Now _that’s_ it Batsy. Get _mad_.” He chuckled, and moved towards Bruce again, throwing himself at him, clinging to him. Bruce outweighed him, but the force still knocked them over, had them toppling to the concrete, rolling as Bruce tried to pin the man.

The Joker was laughing, breathy, as they tangled, as Bruce got a knee to his ribs, gave another punch to the man’s jaw. He managed to grab him as the clown turned, as if to push himself up on his hands and knees and run, and slid along his back, grabbing at his wrists and pinning him down with his body.

The Joker only laughed, and suddenly raised his hips, bucking back against Bruce and _oh_ , it was suddenly not the two of them atop a cold rooftop, but it was his Jack below him, pressed into the sheets, and Bruce bit his lip, so har dhe tasted blood, holding in a moan, trying to chase the image away with the sharp pain, the taste of copper.

“Not so different, is it, Brucie?” Joker asked, sliding along his body again. “The way we fight and the way we _fuck_? We’ve been doing this for _years_. Think, what would it have been like if you took that pesky _mask_ off sooner?”

He managed to free his wrists, squirming away from Bruce, kicking back at his shoulder and knocking him onto his back. The Joker hopped up onto him, straddling his hips and arching up, strange and terrifying in the moonlight. Bruce pushed himself up, wanted to grab at him- but at his thighs, to steady him, hold him in place.

“Tell me, Bats, darling, sweetheart, _light of my world_ , what was so _terrifying_ about me knowing who was under that mask? What scared you so much you had to _violate me_?” He leaned down, hands firmly on Bruce’s shoulders, forcing him back onto the concrete. “Scared of letting someone else see all your demons, little Brucie? Scared of what it’d be like to let your ultimate nightmare into all those sleepless nights from your youth? Scared to know that your nightmares could _love you_?”

He moved then, off Bruce like lightning, standing as he tried to push himself up, to stand. Joker was watching him with those eyes. “Tick-tock Brucie. Your city is on a very strict curfew, don’t forget. And you’re _nowhere near killing me_.”

Bruce reached for him, grabbed his arm and yanked him back, twisting it so the Joker cried out, his back slamming to Bruce’s chest. He locked his arms around him, holding him, leaning in against his ear and neck.

“Stop this, Jack,” he growled, and felt the man shiver, the way he pushed back against his chest.

“Don’t waste your time talking to the _dead_ , Bats. They don’t hear so well.” He squirmed, but Bruce held him tight.

“Just stop this madness and talk to me.”

“Oh, we’re talking.” He lurched forward, breaking free of Bruce’s grasp, turning and punching his ribs, knocking his breath right out of him. “Talking just like we used to, baby. Don’t forget, this conversation has been going on for _years_. You and I, Bats, we’re one of a kind. We’re two halves to a whole- oh, we could have been so much.” He reached up, wiping at his red mouth, lipstick and blood smearing onto his sleeve, his teeth having sunk into his lip from one of Bruce’s punches. “Could have ruled these streets. In whatever way _you_ wanted. There’s plenty of space in the underbelly of Gotham for something as terri-fying as you. And there seemed plenty of room on your arm for _me_.”

Bruce heard thunder then, a flash of lightning, and the Joker was running towards him. Bruce jumped to the side, grasped at his jacket, pulled him back, had him clawing at his face, had to shove him off, down to the ground before he raked those blunt nails down his face.

“I’m sorry!” Bruce finally yelled. “I’m sorry for all of it. I was wrong. _I was wrong_. What else do you want from me?”

“I told ya Bats,” he said, wiping at his red mouth again, but not moving. “Now _kill me_.”

Bruce didn’t move. He simply stared down at this man, held his gaze. “...No.”

“Not even to save your city? Not even for all those tiny little people out there who _need you_? I know who you are, Bats. I know your face, your name, I know all the demons that haunt you at night. You can’t leave me alive. I’m _a threat_.”

Bruce took a step towards him, another. Then, leaning down, he held his hands out. “You’re a man,” he offered, instead, and the Joker glanced at his hand, then back up at him. “A man who I have hurt. Too many times.”

Bruce expected his hand swatted away, to fall down to the hard concrete- but the Joker reached up, grasped it, allowed Bruce to pull him up. Bruce hesitated once they were standing, before moving in a step closer. “I was wrong, Jack. What I did to you. It...it wasn’t human.” He released his hand, reaching up, grasping at his chin, holding him so that the Joker couldn’t look away. “It was vile. And I...I’m sorry.”

“You can’t be sorry,” the Joker forced, as the thund around them grew louder, as the sky began it’s cold mist. “You would do it again.”

Bruce hesitated. “Maybe, if I didn’t know what I did now.” An eyebrow quirked up, but there was no smart response, no jab at any tender spot on Bruce’s bruising body. “That you trusted me. That you really cared. That I...I could hurt you so badly.”

The Joker hand reached up, curled around Bruce’s wrist, but didn’t pull his hand away, even as it slipped from his jaw to his cheek, as his gloved thumb ran over a scar.

“I know Jack’s not dead,” he continued, whispering as the wind picked up. Gotham had chosen the perfect night to open the skies, it seemed. “Because I see him, right here. Because you’re not two separate people. Jack is the Joker, always was- and _you_ can’t escape being Jack, then.” That thumb traced the scar again. “Please, stop it all. Let me talk to you.”

The Joker stared at Bruce, in his dark eyes, through those thick blond lashes, before finally glancing away, as a raindrop fell down along one cheek bone. “There’s nothing to stop,” he offered, “No bombs. No explosions. Your city is safe.”

“But-“

“I _lied_ Bats. Wouldn’t be the first time.” That hand tightened around his wrist as he looked back. “So talk all you like.”

Bruce felt his throat closing, felt like he should apologize for hours, but didn’t know how to. Instead his hand eased back into the Joker’s hair, the curls growing damp as the rain picked up, and leaned in, finding his mouth, kissing him as if Jack as dying right in front of him, as if he had a moment to let him know without words everything inside his head.

The Joker was still for a moment, before his free hand reached out, grabbing at Bruce’s cape that had fallen over his shoulder, fisting in it, holding on. His scarred lips spoke back, silently, tasting like lipstick and blood, smearing Bruce’s mouth red as his head was tipped back, as Bruce kissed him deeper, the rain soaking into his purple suit, chilling him to the bones.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispered against his lips, “For all of it.” He pulled back, gave himself a moment to study the Joker’s smudged mouth, as Jack’s eyes stared up at him, _listening_ , focused. “I...I didn’t know what you’d do.”

“When I found out you were my long time _crush_? My dark Knight?” The Joker chuckled, smiling. A real smile. Jack’s smile. “You didn’t think I’d fall onto my knees in your little cave and ask to _worship you_?”

Bruce felt color rising in his cheeks, heats, from the rain and the cold and the way Joker’s words held such exquisite promise.

“I thought you would think that all of this, all of the...affection, it wasn’t real.” Bruce’s hand moves from his hair, down to Jack’s neck, thumb running along his throat. “It was real. Is real. All of it.”

Jack licked his lips, leaning in closer to Bruce. “Always was,” he whispered, his breath ghosting along Bruce’s mouth. “Everything was always real, Brucie boy. I loved you from the moment you let me fall. I loved you from the moment I first breathed. I loved you before you _existed_.” He tugged on Bruce’s cape, leaning even closer. “I loved you when I saw you standing outside your home, so sweet looking, so naive, ready to open up your home to me. I loved you when you gave me that book, when you held me outside at dusk. I loved you the moment you touched my scars. The moment you let me see all the demons inside your head.”

This time, Jack kissed him, opened mouth, passionate, Bruce clutching at him, needing to hold him close. He was soaked, even Bruce was cold through the suit, as the thunder continued to rumble up in the sky. “But forgiving you,” he whispered, and Bruce knew those Joker teeth were sharp, poised to bite into him, “Forgiving you is the hardest thing I may have to do.”

He pulled back, staring Bruce in his eyes. “How can I help?” Bruce voice was shaking, as the Joker untangled his arms, his hands, reached up to run his fingers along the seam of Bruce’s cowl.

“Let me see you.”

Bruce didn’t hesitate. He let go of him, reached up, pulled his cowl off, tossing it down to the wet concrete. The rain trickled into his hair , the wind cold against his forehead. And the Joker, Jack, whoever this nightmare was, he smiled.

He reached up, his hands pressing along Bruce’s cheeks, he could feel that small scar on one palm, as they moved back, fingers tangling in his now-wet hair. “You have so many demons,” Jack whispered, tilting his head slightly, as if he was studying him. “Let me be them. All of them.”

He kissed Bruce again, slowly now, as if he was learning his mouth again, as if this was their first kiss. Bruce clutched him, held him tight, eyelids fluttering as Jack’s mouth moved to the corner of his, to his jawline, licked away the rainwater.

“If you ever do something like this to me again,” he whispered, kissing his way to Bruce’s ear, “I’ll kill you, Bruce Wayne. I’ll kill the both of us. We’ll end just like we began, _together_.”

Bruce didn’t argue. He could believe that, if he fucked up again, if he hurt Jack in this way ever again, he would want to die.

“Okay,” he whispered, as Jack came back to his mouth, kissed him again. He reached up, held his face, wanted to stroke his scars, felt his chest and throat closing up. “Okay.” Jack leaned forward, pressed his forehead to Bruce’s, gave him a smile, a _real one_.

“Take me home, prince charming,” he whispered, “Before I change my mind. Or catch my death.” Bruce laughed, couldn’t help it, and Jack did too. He pulled away, leaning down to gather up Bruce’s mask, then, reaching up, settled it back over his head, allowing Bruce himself to adjust it. Jack smiled, tracing up to tape his finger along the Kevlar on Bruce’s cheek. “My little knight,” he whispered, and Bruce felt heat flare in his cheeks, his belly fluttering.

He followed Jack to the doorway, back down through the chemical plant, outside, to Bruce’s bike. Bruce climbed on, feeling Jack slip on behind him, arms locking around his waist, and sped off through the rain, onto the roads, towards the manor.

Towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had another possible ending to this story, but I decided I wanted the positive end, since we get enough heartbreak with this ship in canon. And I'm fairly happy with my decision.


	16. Epilogue

Bruce smiled, offering a small wave as the shutters clicked on cameras, the bright late spring day perfect, the sky blue along the skyline. Next to him, Jack was smiling too, his blond curls free, framing his face, showing only the beginnings of his scars.

The press conference and release regarding what Bruce planned to have done with the latest section of the Narrows he was reworking had gone remarkably well, and he had been well received. Better then expected.

He had a feeling it was because of Jack, standing at his side, smiling the whole time. Even answering a question himself, when they were directed at him. Because they were, quite frequently. It made sense though, to Bruce. After all, Jack had hand picked the section to be renovated, made livable again with safe buildings. And Bruce knew, weeks now since Jack had run from him, that the building he had spent that one night in was included in the mess.

_It simply has to go_ Jack had told him, looking over his shoulder at the city map of the Narrows. _It served its purpose. Lay it to rest_.

Bruce couldn’t say no.

But it had been a good decision. There weren’t many residents in the area, and the few there were hadn’t had a problem relocating for the project- Bruce had made sure that Wayne Enterprises took care of their housing needs. Truthfully, it seemed perfect.

What was even better, for him, was having Jack’s face associated with the ordeal as well. Good publicity, he knew, was a part of the recovery step. Perhaps not really for Jack, but for him being able to traverse every day life. Already, it seemed that most people were forgetting his past- or, as Bruce expected was far more likely, choosing to forgive it, as his future seemed to hold so much good.

He slipped his arm around Jack’s waist, pulling him closer and turning to kiss his temple, not caring that that picture would be all over the media in no time. He was rather fond of the affectionate pictures the media had become so obsessed with. Besides, their relationship was blatant at this point, open. Bruce preferred it that way.

Not that people recognizing and acknowledging it didn’t always stop him. Just earlier, as they had stepped from the car, they’d been announced as _The Waynes_ , something Bruce hadn’t heard since he was a child, since he had accompanied his parents. It had caused his cheeks to flush, and Jack to give off his dazzling smile.

He had never given Bruce, or anyone, a last name. And Bruce didn’t ask, didn’t need it. So it seemed the public had adopted Bruce’s for Jack- and neither seemed to have a problem with it. It gave Bruce childish butterflies every time he heard it, especially when Jack was there to smile about it, for his green eyes to light up.

Bruce gave his waist another squeeze, before walking with Jack off the small stage, ready for their next stop.

*

Jack was always happy to return to the manor after one of those long, media filled days. The attention was definitely something he enjoyed, but he’d grown to love the peace the Manor had, the solitude away from the city. The shadows and the empty spaces.

He left Bruce to do as he would, probably off to get a cup of coffee, he swore the man bled the stuff, and made his way upstairs, turning towards Thomas’s office. The door was left open, along with the window, allowing it some air. He walked in, smiling, making a mental note to thank Alfred for remembering to open it for him.

He had grown to love this space. The shadows on the old book cases, the creaks in the floor boards. The way the room was entirely different in the daylight then in twilight.

He slipped down into the chair behind the heavy wooden desk, sighing as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Bruce had opened up the space to him, once he had come back- once things had calmed down between them. It almost seemed like an apologetic gift, the space where Jack felt he had seen so much of Bruce. The space that _meant_ something to Bruce, given to him. Not that he planned on changing it much, if at all. Simply letting some air in, that was all. He liked it the way it was.

Those days after he had returned, they had been rough. He wouldn’t touch a thing Bruce touched- anything he put into his mouth he had to handle directly- or from Alfred. He trusted the man enough to not support Bruce’s defilement of him. He had slept away from Bruce, back in his own room. He had inhabited the space, but he had not truly been present, at first.

He had to be eased back into life, taken down from his final Joker high. Taken down from the fact that he had truly been ready to die, had wanted Bruce to break his one rule, _break it for him_ , and finish him off. He needed isolation, tranquility.

He had been given it, without questions. And when he had been ready to open up again, that had been accepted without words. He had simply walked into Bruce’s room, in the dead of night, and crawled into his head. Bruce hadn’t touched him, had let him lay there, face pressed into a pillow that smelled like him, until Jack had turned to him, entangled their legs together and kissed him once, slowly, before nestling into him to sleep.

He hadn’t left Bruce’s- no, no _their_ bed since. What had been his room was back to simply one of endless guest rooms, all traces of Jack’s brief stay there erased.

He sighed, heard footsteps coming towards the room, but didn’t open his eyes. He knew them, knew the way they carried a body’s weight, their rhythm. He could tell Bruce from Alfred with ease. And he knew it was his lover walking in through the open door, crossing the room to him-

Placing his hands on his thighs as he dropped to the ground, on his knees. Jack smiled, reaching a hand out blindly to stroke through his dark hair, before he opened his eyes, glancing down through thick blond lashes.

“Hmm,” he whispered, “What ever are you doing down there, _Mr. Wayne_.” Bruce smiled up at him, leaning in, nuzzled his belly before turning, nipping at one thigh through his clothing. Jack arched, slightly, loving the attention, wondering if Bruce had an end in mind, or if these were simply playful teasings.

He would be happy with either. If he didn’t have Bruce now, he could, later. Whenever he wanted him, it seemed Bruce was willing. In whatever way. It was _electrifying_ , the attraction between them, despite all that had happened.

“Are you coming down for dinner?” Bruce asked, glancing back up, and Jack tapped the fingers of one hand on the arm rest.

“I suppose. If I’m convinced.”

“If I make it up to you later?” Bruce was smiling, and Jack reached for his face, cupping it gently as he shifted, leaning down to kiss him gently.

“You best keep your promise,” Jack whispered, “Or I might simply go _batty_.”

*

“You’re going down the wrong street.”

“I am not-“

“You are! I see you on the screen!” Jack leaned forward, staring at the large monitor in front of him, the tiny flashing bat that was Bruce on the map. “You need to be one over.”

“I think I have this under control-“

“I think _I’m_ the one that knows where Ozzy dear likes to keep this ring operating out of, and not you, _darling_.” He heard Bruce groan over the headset and giggled, as Alfred stepped off the elevator, making his way towards Jack, holding a tray.

“I’ve made you tea, sir.” He set it down as Jack thanked him, reaching for the cup and spooning in a ridiculous amount of sugar. Alfred glanced up at the screen. “Isn’t he on the wrong street?”

“I tried to tell him that!” He heard Bruce huff out his breath at them. “ _Bruce Wayne_ I swear if you fuck this up, I am taking your stupid mask and cape and doing it _myself_.” Alfred chuckled, moving away from the computer, as Jack grinned, noticing that Bruce was crossing a building, moving over one street _like he had told him to_. He leaned his chin onto his hand, pulling up the small camera in Bruce’s cowl, getting a view just as he swung from one building to another, a little rush moving through his body, wishing he was there as well. Wanting to run through the streets of Gotham like they used to.

Batman had disappeared briefly, when Jack had returned. Bruce had waited until Jack came back to him, until he let him place his hands on his skin, his scars, and didn’t flinch away. He had waited until Jack had finally told him to go.

And when he had come back that first night, Jack had been waiting for him in the cave. Bruce hadn’t kicked him out, hadn’t chastised him- he had simply pulled his cowl off and kissed him, smelling like Gotham air and Kevlar and sweat, and Jack had felt himself melt so quickly it was embarrassing.

Now, he hard worked himself entirely into Bruce’s routine. After all, he had knowledge Bruce could never dream of. And while he wasn’t one to betray _friends_ , he had plenty of criminals he wouldn’t mind taking a swing at. Well, most of them, honestly.

Truthfully, he only had one that was off limits, that he wouldn’t speak a word of, and Bruce knew better then to ask. As far as Jack was concerned, Harley was always safe with him now.

“I see them,” Bruce said, crouched atop a low building, and Jack could too, from the camera. Hired thugs moving about from the back doorway of one small old thrift shop. The shop was a front, they moved a hefty amount of drugs through Gotham, and Jack knew that Oswald held the reins currently.

“Promise to come back to me in one piece sugar.”

Bruce chuckled. “Promise.”

“Kisses!” Jack giggled, tossing a kiss into the air, before leaning back to watch in silence. He didn’t want to _distract_ Bruce, simply be on the line in case he was needed. Not that he had been allowed to do anything other then what he was currently in the cave. Bruce didn’t want him dragged back into the Gotham underbelly in any way- and warned him that if the Joker suddenly appeared, alongside Batman, they would _never_ get the media off their lawn, asking Jack all about the dark knight.

It was a pity. Jack did want so badly to be out there. And there was something fun about the idea of being at Bruce’s side through it all. He didn’t care much which side was winning anyway- never had. It had all been about the thrill. And he was, slowly, becoming rather fond of doing good for the city. Even if he didn’t always want to admit it.

*

Bruce walked into the cave, feeling an ache in his side from a couple good hits he had taken with a metal pipe. Still, it had gone fairly well, he hadn't gotten _shot_ and he’d left a few higher up men in charge of the ring bound for the GCPD. Plus, it was still early, he would be able to turn in and get a few good hours sleep easily.

He walked towards the computer, where he saw footage from a street camera showing the GCPD arriving and cleaning up his mess, saw Jack watching with slightly bored eyes. He grinned, stopping by his side and leaning over him, nestling his curls and kissing his temple.

“One piece,” he whispered, as Jack turned and kissed his jawline, skilled fingers reaching up and lifting the cowl from his face.

“You’d be in so much trouble if you weren’t,” he was mumbling, kissing up to Bruce’s mouth, leaving him breathless. “Now lemme see the damage dollface.”

Bruce pulled back, rolling his eyes but still grinning, as he started to remove the suit, piece by piece, Jack helped him at times, plucking piece from his hands and settling them on the table. The cape he took, wrapped himself up in, leaving Bruce laughing, even as his arm was moved and Jack pressed at the sore spot on his side, the reds and purples of a bruise already forming.

“You’ll live,” Jack decided, then, letting the cape fall off one shoulder, dragging his shirt with it, “Unless I wear you down to your bones.”

Bruce leaned against the table, kicking off the last bit of the suit, so he was down to nothing but his underwear. He grinned, raising his eyebrows.

“What if I’m too tired? I thought you’d be good after earlier this evening.” His grin grew smug, and Jack giggled, leaning into him, his hand pressing between them, palming Bruce’s cock through his underwear.

“You underestimate me, Brucie,” he purred, “And if you’re tired, I’ll just have to climb on top.” He winked, and Bruce’s cheeks flushed, Jack leaning in and kissed at his pulse point. “Unless you have a problem with that?”

“Not at all.” Jack smiled into Bruce’s skin, kissed his jawline, moving his hand slowly, making Bruce’s breath rush out. He felt Jack’s mouth on the corner of his, when suddenly there was a very clear _ahem_ , and the two of them were turning towards the elevator, where Alfred was standing.

“Perhaps you two would like to take this to a more _appropriate_ place,” he offered. Then, glancing at the pieces of the suit strewn about, added, “I see you’ve left a mess for me.”

Jack shucked the cape off of himself, onto Bruce, and walked over, taking Alfred’s arm and spinning him away from the mess, towards the elevator. “No worries Alfred, you head on to bed. We’ll come down and clean up in the morning.” Bruce watched as Jack hit the _up_ arrow and the elevator door opened, the two stepping on, Jack’s hand reaching out to hold the doors open. “C’mon my little knight, I’m not done with you yet.”

Bruce dropped the cape, and modesty be damned, moved towards the elevator. It wasn’t as if Jack was very _quiet_ about their intimate affairs. Nor, Bruce was sure, was Alfred free of _hearing_ either of them plenty of times.

He stepped onto the elevator and Jack took his arm, leaning into him, nestling his warm skin, and Bruce pulled him against his side, holding him their, reaching up to tangle his fingers in his blond curls. It was okay, then, how open and loud and teasing Jack was about it. He didn’t care. He could laugh about it, even.

Because things were okay. For the first time, they were actually okay.

Perhaps even better then okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: I have wanted to write a verse where the Joker becomes a sort-of hero with Bruce. He doesn't have Bruce's rules (and only plays by them when coerced by his darling), and he sometimes lets certain villains get away if he likes them, but he still follows his Bat and tries to help him.  
> I had to resist so much to not end with that. But...it's a possibility for the future. I would like to keep this verse open to possible oneshots in the future. It was simply so fun to work with.  
> Thanks to everyone for sticking around and reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> (Anyone who knows my love of Hannibal shouldn't be shocked over the Joker wearing Will's anti-bite mask from season 2.)


End file.
